


D'Autrefois

by koushi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Action, Angst, Dark, Death, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Violence, dubcon, marital infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-28
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 53,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koushi/pseuds/koushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An introspective post-Inception story centered around Cobb's capture by Cobol Engineering, we start right as the movie ends. Will he be able to escape the confines of the prison... of his mind? An intensely emotional look into the unhinged psyche of our favorite anti-hero and the inner workings of the team around him. Some pairings are merely implied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fractured dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own nor am I in any way affiliated with Inception and/or its creators.  
> Note: Part I: Chapters 1-6, Part II: Chapters 7-11, Part III: Chapters 12-13. Title translates to "of times passed." Dedicated to my_kakistocracy at LJ for flailing next to me the whole way through, and much thanks to jacquise at LJ for the read-over.

The small pewter top spun atop the mahogany dining room table. Its centripetal dance flirted with the laws of physics, batted its eyelashes teasingly at the concept of time, tiptoeing outside the grasp of any universal principle. Whether or not infinity existed could have been deduced from the eventual faltering of the tiny, seemingly insignificant object. _Nothing is forever_ , it wanted to say to anyone who’d listen. _The ultimate truth is-_ But its cries were stifled by the gloved hand of an intruder.

Dominick Cobb did not witness the very act that took his reality hostage.

 _Finally things were going to be okay_ , Cobb thought in a euphoric daze as he stood on the patio outside his kitchen. He’d returned home intact to his and Mal’s children and regained his sense of purpose as a normal, loving father. They would make him whole, just as Saito’s call had reestablished him as a law-abiding citizen. A happy ending. For once.

Clutching Phillipa and James to him tightly, one in each arm, he exhaled in satisfaction but found that he couldn’t help but listen for the falling of the top. His waking life was surreal, having accustomed himself to encountering his memories in dreams. There was no solid definition in between the two states of being, only the reassuring feel of cool metal against his thumb. Old habits are hard to break.

“Go play on the swings, sweeties. Daddy will be back in a second to push you,” Cobb murmured sweetly as they cheered and ran off together, illuminated under the brightness of the sun, racing to the swing set. _I have to be sure_...

He was a man of average height and build, clad in a formal two-piece suit and tie due to his elite status as the best extractor in his profession. Before circumstances had changed, he’d been able to cherry pick jobs from discreet clients on his whim. But, of course, nothing lasts forever.

Cobb craned his neck but, hearing no toppling noise against the hard table, brushed himself off and turned to squint intently against the grain of the sunlight into the house.

A silhouette. Perhaps Miles had picked it up...

Cobb walked back through the sliding door and into the kitchen, where his eyes adjusted to reveal a familiar man holding his totem. Just the sight of it in someone else’s grip made his knees quiver and his stomach lurch, as if his innermost secrets had been plundered and violated.

It was the thin man. The man from Cobol who’d first offered him a ticket out of the States—a pact with the devil—standing in the exact spot that he occupied that day.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled menacingly, stepping towards the intruder and clenching his fists. Then in a softer voice as the initial burst of outrage fizzled into a sense of dread, “I thought I was done with this. This is all in the past.”

Two men came up from behind him as if they’d appeared out of thin air—interrupting his thought—each grabbing one of his arms firmly. Taken aback, he struggled initially but found that their solid hold might as well have been forged of iron.

“Oh, no, Mr. Cobb. I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken,” the suit smirked cruelly, twiddling the top between his forefinger and thumb like a perplexing novelty item. “Not to be cliché but you can run but you can _never_ hide from the truth. You are every bit the same Dominick Cobb you used to be, always have been. The one who owes us his life.”

“We settled the score, didn’t we? Didn’t Saito give you a call?” he demanded with a furrowed brow. _Saito promised a free pass, didn’t he_?

“Ha. Proclus Global has no power over us: we merely wanted to steal some of their engineering secrets. But I am more than certain that our own department will come to some sort of discovery by and by,” the obvious leader of the pack explained as he slipped the top into a pocket and retrieved a gold-plated Zippo lighter in its place.

“But we’re even now. You don’t need anything from me because I don’t have your secrets anyway.”

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Cobb. You see there’s nothing we hate more than filthy backstabbing rats... like yourself,” the man started as he slipped a cigarette out of the pack in the inner pocket of his jacket, lighting it swiftly. “We had a deal. We saved you from apprehension by state and federal authorities for _murder_. And in this country we don’t take that lightly.”

“Fuck you. You’ve killed more people than you can count by the looks of you,” Cobb argued, his eyes glaring daggers into the gleeful villain. _Rat? You’ll wish you never made such an insinuation_.

He simply waved it off with one hand and stepped up to Cobb, blowing smoke into his face, taking his time to play with this curious new toy, as if he were no different from the top. “This is irrelevant. What you did was cheat Cobol Engineering out of our end of the bargain, and no one _fucks_ Cobol, you understand that?”

He took a nice long draw from the cigarette, the end becoming ashy and sprinkling onto Cobb’s patent loafers, the orange glow traveling down the white stick. Cobb flitted his eyes from side to side, trying to form a stratagem and checking his peripheral vision for an escape route. He’d just made it home... only to realize that it wasn’t as familiar as he’d remembered it. He and Mal’s wedding picture hung, framed with a thick black rim, in the hallway leading to the front door, her eyes staring at them... at him, like the ever searching gaze of the Mona Lisa.

A shadow was cast along the hardwood floor and it loomed larger as it paced toward them. _Oh thank goodness_ , he breathed. That’s right: Miles had come home with him to help with the children since Marie had returned to France to visit relatives.

“Miles! Don’t come in! Run! Call the authorities!” Cobb shouted as quickly as he could to alert the old man. But instead his figure came into view without a hint of tension, shoulders proud and relaxed, triumphant even.

“I should have guessed you wouldn’t have expected anything, Dominick,” Miles stated solemnly. “You were never the brightest of the brood after all.”

“What are you talking about?” Cobb blurted out in dumbfounded shock. “Get these assholes out of my home!”

Miles tsked sharply, “Rudeness, though, you did possess. I always thought you had a questionable upbringing. And I will do no such thing: these men are my invited guests.”

“You called them?”

“Why yes. Glad to see those gears working in that dim-witted Cro-Magnon cranium of yours,” Miles chortled primly, continuing in his leisurely pace towards Cobb. He nodded towards the Cobol agent, who stepped aside with a tip of the head. “You know the feeling of viewing a slanted painting on the wall? You get the urge to set it straight, right? Mm, well, see, that’s the same impulse that overtakes me when I see an imbalance in the universe. An imbalance of justice that is.”

“Miles? But you helped me get home. Why are you ruining things... with my children playing outside just yards away?” Cobb fumbled with his words, still dumbstruck.

“This you will understand soon enough, Dominick. But in the meantime...” Miles wound up and punched Cobb mercilessly in the gut, knocking the wind out of him instantly.

“This is for Mal.”

He groaned and saw a flash of brightness, which shattered into shards of every color imaginable. A wave of nausea induced by shifting organs and lack of oxygen suffocated his senses. The last thing he was able to remember was stars dancing around Miles’ crescent moon smile and then... darkness.

***

Consciousness returned to Cobb in disjointed pieces. He vaguely remembered lying on the floor of a moving vehicle, his head aching, ostensibly from the impact as they tossed him into the van like a rag doll. But he was still blind, his breath stifled by what felt like the rough texture of burlap rubbing against his face with every stop and turn.

He wanted to vomit, but he was certain he’d choke on his regurgitation and die an agonizing death of acidic asphyxiation. Even in that twilight state he wondered to himself, _would it really be so bad after all? In comparison to what they’re going to put you through?_ Still... the image of Phillipa and James, beaming faces illuminated in the Californian sun as they called for him upon his long-awaited arrival... this kept his resolve alive, however shaky its existence.

The rumbling of the motor halted along with the rolling of the automobile. Cobb couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours, but he awoke from a pseudo-dream state, in which he imagined a reunion that hadn’t been broken up by treachery. He longed to close his eyes and return where he’d left off, but the thought had already drifted away, forever out of reach. Cobb heard voices echoing faintly as the grunts joked vulgarly amongst themselves.

Kidnapping, assault, execution... It was just everyday, mundane work to them... as extraction had been to him. They didn’t... couldn’t stop to think for a second the effects of their actions would have on an endless line of victims, for the sake of their conscience. _Selfish bastards_. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest, but he refused to inquire as to why. _Shelve it_ , he told himself. But Cobb was speedily running out of space in his library of emotions put on pause.

“Where should we hold him, Johnny?”

“Eh, Cell Five is empty.”

“No, no. Put him in Cell Two. Now that’ll be an interesting show,” the thin man’s voice rang out, the end of his phrase nearly drowned out by raucous laughter of the part of the others.

He then felt a tug on his leg and another hand grabbing him carelessly by the collar. “Git up and fuckin’ walk. We ain’t carryin’ you ‘gain, ya sack o’ bricks.”

Grudgingly and unsteadily he sat himself up and felt for the edge of the base. The goon guided him roughly onto solid ground and promptly pushed him forward, poking a cold blunt object into his back. “Go.”

As soon as he stood, the blood that was pooled at the back of his head rushed downward, and he felt dizziness envelop his mind. Jostled and snapped from side to side, the Cobol underling led Cobb through what felt like a winding labyrinth to his unwelcome new abode.

After opening one last door, his captor said, “Okay, in here. Home sweet home.” He could just imagine the excited sneer on the man’s face as he sadistically exercised power over a vulnerable, for once not being at the bottom of the company food chain. _Scumbag_.

The first thing that struck him about the cavern he’d set foot in was the musty smell, as if the ventilation system hadn’t been checked in years, and mold and dust were allowed to accumulate freely in the corners. _Arthur wouldn’t survive more than five minutes in this place_ , he mused with a morbid grin.

Then as the sack was lifted from his head like the unveiling of a bride, he realized the full extent of the dinginess of his accommodations. The ground was made of concrete and the walls of large, heavy stones, in whose crevices he could discern strains of mildew. The temperature was chilly yet damp, a strange sensation after having just soaked in the rays of the summer sun. It was a decently-sized room for a single person, but, as he recalled, the cell would house two.

On his right sat the largest piece of furniture in the sparse room, a bunk bed with mattresses that may as well have been made out of stone themselves for how hard they appeared. A stainless steel toilet hid behind the military-style sleeping arrangements, and a tiny intercom in front of the extractor was lodged awkwardly into the wall, where a stone had to have been cut to make space for the modern appliance.

Looking to his left, he spotted by far the worst feature of the already-soiled room: an emaciated version of the architect he once knew, sitting in a corner with his knees drawn up in the fetal position, unwilling to meet his eye. Greasy hair and tattered clothing as if he’d been denied all but a few sprays of a garden hose and a couple beatings a week. Nash.

Cobb wanted to laugh aloud. It was almost _too_ perfect, the irony. He was so much above this pathetic, cheating rat, and yet they’d again found themselves in the same predicament. He felt another strange pang stabbing his chest, stronger this time, and he, at that second, wished fervently for the quick release of cardiac arrest.

“Hope you enjoy the amenities, kid, ‘cause this ain’t one’o’them fancy schmancy legal prisons like San Quentin,” the ruddy guard joked, albeit unsuccessful in his attempt at humor. “This ain’t yer granny’s jail cell, that’s fer sure.”

The door closed behind them, and there was nothing but eerie silence, stalled only by the sound of a drop of water hitting the ground. Of course they didn’t bother fixing leaks. People don’t stay long enough in these “suites” for the conditions to matter.

Ignoring the other man’s presence for the time being, Cobb sat down on the bottom bunk bed. _Yep, like a rock_ , he sighed. All he wanted to do was to rest his sore body, to return to those beautiful images in his recent dream, to end this interminable day once and for all. He lay down.

“That one’s mine,” a weak voice cried out from the opposite corner.

 _The nerve of the sniveling bastard... How dare he even speak to me after all he’s done?_ “Fuck off,” was all he managed, attempting to keep his lip from twitching in anger.

“I see you’re in one of your better moods,” Nash coughed, stretching out his atrophied vocal cords.

“Don’t you have some team members to betray? I don’t want to hear you speak, much less talk to you.”

He heard a shuffling noise as Nash arose, taking painstaking steps forward. His familiar form, just as he’d remembered it, though thinner and paler. _No._ Cobb looked away, in contempt for every molecule in the room.

“Dominick Cobb, you are one deluded motherfucker,” he chuckled low and sarcastically.

“I don’t know what you’re on about. Do they keep you on amphetamines in here or what?” Cobb replied. _Keep cool, Dom. He’s not worth it_.

“Are you that far gone now? Did you go and re-imagine your life, making yourself out to be some saint?” Nash asked, firmer now in his words. “Because I can tell you firsthand that you’re far from it.”

“Shut up,” Cobb commanded, his tone threatening. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Nash could do nothing but laugh, the whole of his slender frame rocking.

“Leave me the fuck alone, or you’ll regret it.” _Sweep it under the rug along with everything else, Dom. Stay steady._

“I can’t say I don’t already regret it, Dom. ‘It’ being ever meeting you because, you know, you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Nash said, with a hint of what one could call sadness. “But anyway, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, shouldn’t you be with your beloved kids? That is if they’re even yours,” he taunted. “Truth be told, they look nothing like you.”

It had been a rough day, and Cobb had had a colossal mound on his proverbial plate. He had only one reaction available to him.

Pay it forward. He slid out of bed, stumbling forward and, in a rage, wound back and punched Nash squarely in the face, following through until his fist couldn’t reach any further. He felt a distinct crack under his knuckles, the satisfying crunch of once-rigid cartilage giving away to a dominant force, a spurt of blood spraying over his fingers as he drew back.

Nash yelped in surprise and pain, his hands flying up to his misshapen snout.

“I-I told you to fuck off,” Cobb uttered shakily, trying to justify his action to himself. This was wrong, boiling over. He was so used to keeping himself contained, under control, but the events of the day, the Fischer job, seeing his children, and being soundly betrayed... they were hammering at his protective exoskeleton, splintering it as soundly as Nash’s nose.

In fact, it was too surreal to be anything but a dream. Cobb clutched at his pockets furiously, ignoring the bloodstains he was rubbing onto his suit, but to no avail. The guards had taken everything from him, including his sense of reality. He sprawled back onto the bed and did his best to block out what had just happened, closing his eyes and losing himself in his thoughts.

However, as he stroked his temples, massaging his brain to work, he realized there was one item they’d neglected to take from him: his wedding band. He first stared in disbelief, then rubbed at the band furiously as if he’d found a magic lamp. Instead of being an indicator of his current state of existence as he’d fervently wished, all the genie accomplished was to conjure up doubts about things that even he had taken for granted. _Had_ any _of this been real?_

It took him what felt like ages to fall asleep as his mind was inundated with repeating questions, symptoms of a distorted psyche. _Should I wake up? Can I wake up? How would I kill myself? I have to get back to my kids. Will my kids still remember me when I’m out? Will I ever escape? I’m so sorry, Mal..._

Staring at the wooden beam holding up the mattress above him, he almost felt like he could sense their presence above. Phillipa would be hushing her brother up as he jumped up and down, creaking the springs. “Stop it, James. Mom’s going to find out, and then we’ll both be in trouble.” James stuck his tongue out, his fingers in his ears, bouncing ever rowdier to her dismay. And Mal would be watching from the doorway, unbeknownst to the children, giggling inaudibly.

“Off to sleep now,” she would finally say with a smug grin, causing James to plop down on the bed in surprise. “There will be plenty of time to wreck the furniture tomorrow.”

James pouted in the shame of discovery as his mother guided him to his own room, turning the lights off behind her.

But even in the dark, Cobb knew he couldn’t sleep. Because the heart-wrenching truth remained that there was no one upstairs, no loving caress from a mother’s hand, no picturesque family portrait. And there never would be again.

Yet the lullaby of a quietly sobbing architect rocked him to his slumber.


	2. Being yourself

She knew he loved her of course. Love that was as deep as the ocean water seeping into the Marianas trench. But it was a purely romantic love, a platonic love, as if they had been the closest of friends. 

But still he tried. For years he tried. He wanted to hide from his truth, from what he was, to bolster the facade of a marriage that they shared. He told himself to believe in the opposite, repeating lies in his head until they became his reality.

“It’s okay,” Mal said, kissing Cobb on the forehead tenderly as if to tell him he was forgiven. “Don’t feel bad.”

But his face was staunchly obstinate, the anger at his inability to make love to his wife burning his insides hollow. He watched as she rose from the bed and started to dress, the lovely curves of her hips, the small of her back, the gentle lines that traced her into a work of art. He knew she was beautiful and that he wanted to be with her... so why? Why did his own body refuse?

He could see her waver, gazing upon him, as if she felt the urge to tell him to go, to leave, to search for what really made him happy. But she couldn’t stand the thought of losing the storybook life they’d built together in reality, the universe that they were still constructing within their shared dreams.

Instead she took his hand and his gaze. “Let’s go dreaming, Dom. Let’s go back to Limbo.”

Eventually she had picked up some of Cobb’s skill at repression and overlooked the appearance of a certain projection of his from their distant past. It seemed the more he shelved his feelings away, the more bitter and desperate his dream creations would be, as if they clawed and pleaded at the confines of their master’s skull.

***

 _ You should never dream from your memory. Always imagine new things. _ These were mantra that were all too familiar to the experienced extractor and ones that Cobb, being Cobb, chose defiantly to ignore ever since the his earliest forays into dreamshare.

Now, with the loss of his totem, there was nothing he wanted more than to go back and correct things, to keep his memory and dreamworld separate like they should have been. But at this point, sorting either out was a task as close to impossible as reconstructing a glass that had shattered into a million pieces.

Cobb felt a sense of alarm as he awoke, as if he’d been jarred into existence by the fuel of some atomic explosion. What was it that he’d just witnessed? He... he thought he couldn’t dream anymore without the aid of a PASIV. Unless this “reality” was yet another layer of some abductor’s subconscious, and his true body was sleeping in a chair in some kidnapper’s office.: After all the lumpy slab of a bed was unfamiliar to his aching back and the moldy darkness as foreign to him as the projections in a hostile subject’s dream.

He breathed slowly, in and out, trying to curb the rush of adrenaline that accompanied his panic. _How did I get here? Where’s my totem?_ As his mind surfaced from the grogginess of sleep, however, the dismal truth also graced his path, about as inviting as a specter. He traced the line of continuity back from his arrival at LAX airport: how giddy with joy he’d been then. He should have known it was too good to be true. 

The rest... he didn’t even want to think about. Why had he been so weak? Why didn’t he fight back against the Cobol agents? And why didn’t he have the slightest suspicion of Miles’ intentions? He was so overcome with his own guilt and sorrow that he hadn’t even contemplated what anyone else felt about the whole affair. Arthur included. Because... at that point, he just didn’t care.

 _ What’s it like having the biggest blind spot in the world, Dom _ ? A voice chortled in his head. It sounded vaguely like... the one person who he never wanted to see again. And the only one he was guaranteed to see again. He remembered, with a chill shuddering through his body, the fracturing of bone beneath his fist. No, this was reality, about as certain as reality could be.

Nonetheless he concentrated on the image of his children, the two smiling beacons of joy. _Please let it be a dream. Please let me be at home, taking a nap._ They were his only salvation, his anchor to his old life, now that he had lost his wife and totem. He clung to them for dear life, trying to imagine them there with him. But it was even more useless than the previous night: as hard as he willed it, nothing in the room changed. It was the same dark abyss of fungal growth.

He realized that the incessant whimpering had long since stopped. Looking around the dimly-lit swamp, there was no sign of the scrawny bastard. His blood froze in his veins. What if he’d... what if he’d killed him? Sent bone fragments spiraling into his brain, causing hemorrhaging after excruciating pain?

He leaped up to check the top bunk, but it hadn’t been touched. Ignoring the complaints of his battered muscles, he dashed to the intercom—his blond hair unruly, a few locks dangling before his eyes—and hit the red button desperately.

“What do you want?” a voice came up, unrecognizable due to static.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Where is... Nash?”

The peals of laughter came in piercing high-pitched bursts of sound. “I wish you guys had just killed each other last night. Would have saved our department on the food expenses.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We took your little buttbuddy to the medic, but he’s okay, sadly. He called us this morning begging for help, so we decided to take him upstairs to the in-house doctor just so he’d shut up.”

Cobb breathed a sigh of relief. So he wasn’t a murderer... this time.

“Yeah, his nose was purple and swollen to about three times the size. It was pretty sweet. But the bossman said it’d be pitiful if we let him die to an infection rather than offing the maggot ourselves, so he gave us the go ahead on the doc.”

“Right, right. Well that’s good to hear,” he said in a monotone before hitting the black button to end the call. Causing the deaths of two people in such a short interval, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he deserved all that happened to him. Figuratively speaking that is.

Having dodged the bullet of additional culpability, Cobb then started pacing around, this time assessing his situation with a bit more clarity than he was previously able. His children were under Miles and, by proxy, Cobol’s control now, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except follow obediently whatever directions he was given. Planning an escape would be useless when they could simply remove his raison d’être from him at the wave of a wrist. They knew his weakness and had grabbed him deftly by the balls.

He was fairly certain that Miles, at least, wouldn’t hurt the kids. They were his only tie to Mal after all, and the most he would do would be to threaten Cobb with empty promises. But of Cobol, he was not so sure. For all he knew, they could force him into a _Sophie’s Choice_ if they really wanted, and he... he knew that if that day ever came, he would wish he’d joined Mal in her leap of faith.

His mental ramblings were interrupted by a tap on the door, and suddenly a rectangular panel at the bottom of the door was pushed in with a tray of what could almost pass as food. Cobb dashed to the door to examine the compartment, trying to push it back out, but its hinges only swung one way. He slammed on it a few times but to no avail.

“Fuck,” he said before turning to the mess on the tray. He could now understand the reason for Nash’s skeletal figure. The fare that Cobol provided was no more than the leftovers of the guards’ most recent meal. He picked around, disgusted, through the half-gnawed chicken legs and a carton of mashed potatoes whose crown of gravy had been decapitated. He chewed gratefully on a piece of broccoli, however, as the bowl of vegetables, at least, hadn’t been touched.

As he munched, the door was again shoved open. He froze, the green sliding out of his fingers and onto the floor. Every time that pathway to the outside world was breached, Cobb felt a schizophrenic ambivalence: half of him crawling with the urge to dive out of there as fast as he could, to taste freedom at whatever cost, the other half dreading the identity of the intruder... it could after all be the Grim Reaper in the form of a company executioner. _And if this_ were _reality as I’d guessed,_ he laughed dryly, _what dreams may come?_

But this time it was merely a chattering Nash, escorted by an exasperated dark-haired man whose back and chest tattoos peaked out over the collar of his _Cobol Engineering_ t-shirt, the first “o” replaced by a cog. The ex-architect stopped abruptly, in mid-word, as he noticed Cobb’s presence.

“Yo, does he complain this much to you?” the thug asked Cobb, who stood and wiped his hands off on a half-clean towelette from his platter.

He couldn’t help but manage a sheepish smile. “It’s what he does best.”

The guard nodded his head and walked off, locking the heavy door behind him.

Besides being in the obviously untenable position of prisoner of a bloodthirsty organized crime organization, Cobb really wished he could disappear from where he was. If tension could be sliced with a knife, the awkwardness could have been poked with a fork.

He and Nash both stood their ground, unflinchingly... perhaps unable to move. They each pretended to be extremely interested in the dents and fractures in the concrete beneath the other, souvenirs of beatings gone too far. But finally the sneaky glances upward lost their stealth, and they made eye contact.

“I-” Cobb started. There was nothing in the world he hated more than apologizing, but this was one instance of it being necessary.

“I’m sorry,” Nash said, his voice now more nasal due to the splint on his face, which looked like a clear visor for the nose.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Cobb retorted, instantly suspicious.

“Sorry for provoking you,” Nash shrugged, kicking at a pebble and averting his eyes once more. “I assumed the risk, so I can’t say I didn’t deserve this.”

“Oh goddammit,” Cobb groaned. “Is this some of that reverse psychology bullshit where you try to make me feel even more guilty? Look, I’m sorry, alright? Isn’t that enough?”

“It might be... if you meant it,” Nash replied. “But I’m not accustomed to placing my trust into the palms of pathological liars.”

“I am not a liar. I swear to you that it was never my intention to strike you: that’s not how I deal with things.”

Nash met his gaze again. “I’ve come to terms with the kinds of people we are, you and I. And I know exactly what either one of us will and will not do. So call me self-deprecating, but I was asking for it.”

“Once again, please don’t presume that you know who I am or what I think,” Cobb snarled, raising a hand defensively.

Nash sighed and inched past Cobb, taking the ladder towards the top bunk. _It’s useless to argue with someone who won’t listen_ , he thought, _or to show the truth to someone who won’t open his eyes. Go ahead and dream, Dom. Close your pretty little eyes. But you’ll have to wake up eventually_.

***

She still had needs to be met. He knew this all too well.

Although they were perfectly happy living together, getting along as smoothly as two people could—as aligned in their interests and creative endeavors as a couple could be—he still knew that something was missing from their lives that he, try as he might, couldn’t fulfill.

So he told himself that it didn’t bother him, that he didn’t know, that he didn’t _care_. He made a resolution not to speak of it, that it never existed in his mind. But still he couldn’t help but notice the obvious signs and masochistically wallow in each of them, internalizing the blame.

Arriving home one afternoon, Cobb was in high spirits. After all, he’d been allowed to leave early from his job as a contractor for an architectural firm: it paid the bills but didn’t offer the kind of stimulation he was searching for in a long term career. 

“Mal?” he called out. But only silence responded. “Are you there?”

A faint noise echoed from further in the house. Cobb put down his briefcase and hung up his leather jacket before crossing into the hallway towards the bedrooms. He eyed their engagement and wedding photos on the walls, elegant windows into the past.

A deep guttural moan issued from their bedroom. _Mal? Was she hurt?_ Cobb hurriedly made his way to the bedroom door, making contact with the bronze doorknob before hearing her voice continue, “Oh, Arthur. Yes...”

He froze. _Her needs, Dom, put them before your own,_ a voice commanded didactically from the back of his mind. _It wasn’t as if you couldn’t see this coming_. 

_ So what?  _ he replied to the rebellious voice. _This is my_ wife _we’re talking about._ His hands shook with the instinctual urge to barge in and stop the two of them in delicto flagrante.

 _ What kind of man are you if you can’t even satisfy her? _ the voice added, unfazed by his interjection. _Accept your fate as a cuckold and let her be. Or you could always go back to-_

 _ Stop right there, _ Cobb screamed. _That’s enough. I’d rather die than to return and be... wrong... a deviant._

 _ Letting another man fuck your wife. You call that right? _ the voice guffawed as a rhythmic pounding ensued, the result of the headboard hitting the wall. _You know who and what you are. Better than anyone else, you said. So why don’t you go ahead and show it to the world?_

 _ I love my wife and our life together. Because this is the correct path; this is how things were meant to be.  _ He closed his eyes and backed up against the cabinet behind him, sliding down into a sitting position, his knees bent before him. _I have no answer to you besides that I’m scared... scared to lose everything. Scared of how the world would react to the real me. I have a feeling it wouldn’t be a welcoming parade..._

 _ So what’s the point of living as a shade of what you really are? Putting on that mask everyday and indulging in that pantomime. You enjoy playing the court jester to other people’s whims? _

Muffled cries of ecstasy assaulted his ears. Cobb felt something slide halfway out of his pocket. He felt for it and held up the exacto knife he used at work for models and precision cutting. _Maybe there is no point after all_ , he replied. He pushed up on the little dial until the razorblade was adequately exposed, the sharp metal glinting proudly. _I have an insurance policy. What’ll she care? She can find someone else, someone whole rather than half of a person._   
  
_Finding her husband sitting in a pool of his own blood from slashed wrists may not be the healthiest scene to witness... you know, for her psyche,_ the voice admonished. _Plus cutting yourself is such a girly way to go. Ever heard of sticking a shotgun barrel in your mouth?_

 _ Fuck you _ , Cobb replied, putting away his knife and crossing his arms over his kneecaps. As Mal sang the chords of bliss to her lover, Cobb rose and retraced his path to the garage where his car awaited him. _Store it all away, and the facts can’t hurt you anymore. Keep yourself trapped in a cell, and may everyone know only the polished exterior, the reflection of what they want to see._

Nine months, eight days, three hours, and forty-two minutes later a warm little bundle in fleece blankets was handed to Cobb by a smiling nurse.

“You must be the proud father,” she said, cooing at the contents.

He nodded. “That would be me.”

***

Cobb woke up shuddering. Examining the dark spot on his pillow, he realized it was wet. 

Arthur... His thoughts hadn’t wandered to his right hand man in awhile, but his feelings were certainly all but mixed. So conflicted, in fact, that selectively “forgetting” certain facts had likely been vital to the continuation of their friendship as it was. Really, in a way, he was grateful for Arthur’s role as a pillar of support to Mal in their trio, but when it began to blur the line towards usurpation...

Dammit, he almost preferred the guilt-tripping homicidal Mal of yesteryear to the creeping onslaught of all the bitter memories he’d tried to bury coming to the surface. Was his vault so full already that he couldn’t contain anymore? Was an upgrade available?

And it didn’t help that being locked underground had completely obliterated what circadian rhythm he had remaining after constant air travel and PASIV abuse. Now he had no sense whatsoever of night and day, and the mutual lack of desire to communicate between him and his roommate created even less mental stimulation. So all he could do was let all his remembrances wash over him like pungent, salty ocean waves on the beaches of Limbo, drowning him in unconsciousness until his mind was forever lost.

Nash seemed to prefer his little corner to the top bunk that had been relegated to him. _That’s right,_ Cobb remembered, _he’d always been unnerved by heights. Not to mention the fact that he’s an active sleeper, always tossing and turning, sometimes throwing himself off the bed._ He chuckled aloud to himself, far from caring whether he sounded like a lunatic as he often heard Nash whispering to himself, a habit dramatically worsened by prison living.

Presently he was crouched in that very corner, as if being enveloped by the intersecting walls brought him comfort and a sense of security, like a mouse in its hole. Cobb decided to listen in on the “conversation.” After all, what is eavesdropping between inmates?

“-should have come back. Should have come back. Yes, but I was so frightened, Mom. I think you would have understood,” Nash argued with himself, tilting from side to side on the balls of his feet. “I don’t think I would have liked what I’d have seen. I know they took Dad. So they must have taken you as well. What could I have done? What _could_ I have done? I was only eight...”

 _ Stark raving mad _ , Cobb rolled his eyes dismissively. _No wonder he couldn’t get it together to do his job when people were counting on him. The fucker’s batshit. Not to mention the lives he endangered by taking on a sensitive job... could he be any more careless?_

But Cobb had to put his hypocrisy on hold as the door flew open. A bright stream of fluorescent light from the ceilings of the hallway flooded in along with three figures. It was Miles, dressed in a trenchcoat and holding a cane. He was accompanied by the thin man, who seemed to be the leader of the band of hoodlums, and the tattooed man from before.

Even Nash was rendered momentarily speechless by the guests, though more out of curiosity than fear. He recognized his and Cobb’s former Architecture professor, the father of the latter’s deceased wife, the thin man, who was, as Nash knew, better known as Mitch Wilcox, and the muscled head of the guard, Johnny Douglas. This _had_ to be important business.

Cobb sat up swiftly in his bunk, poking his head out to scan his eyes over the visitors. He wanted to ignore them defiantly, to make them work for whatever they came here for, but with the lives of his children possibly at stake, he couldn’t risk anything. “What do you people want?”

Miles raised an eyebrow in an amused smirk. “Good afternoon to you too, Dominick. I hope you’ve found your accommodations, ah, most suitable to your tastes.”

“Quit the charade. I wanna know how my kids are doing.”

“They’re not your kids anymore, bro,” Johnny butted in. “You’re nothing but a missing person now, a picture on a milk carton. But they’ll never find you or your body when we’re through with you.”

Mr. Wilcox waved him down like an owner would do to a particularly eager Doberman as it entered the ring of a dogfight. “Please go on, Mr. Miles.”

Miles thanked him and resumed, “I thought you were entitled to at least an explanation for your... involuntary vacation here. It doesn’t take the most creative of imaginations, which I know you do not possess, to cross the logical gap from point A to point B. You killed my daughter, and I hold you responsible.”

“Did you plan this all along or was it only after I arrived home that you decided to double-cross me?”

“This had been my intention since the moment I heard the news of Mal’s passing from an FBI agent. You must understand that this is simply the way it has to be. There was never another option for me,” Miles stated, expressionless. He held an arm out diagonal to himself, leaning on the cane clutched tightly by his fingers. “You may call it vengeance, retribution, whatever you find in your pocket thesaurus, but for me, it is merely, as I said, tipping the scale back to zero.”

“Why did you help me with the Fischer job? And even offer one of your best students, Ariadne?”

“You were not guaranteed to accomplish your goal by any means. In fact, I had calculated a very narrow chance of success. If it weren’t for the capabilities of your team members, such as the ex-MI5 forger of yours and my top student, I’m sure your brains would be swimming in Limbo soup right about now.” He tilted his head to the side and raised his gaze in thought. “Come to think of it, I should have offered the class dunce instead. But even the best of us make occasional errors.”

“See, even you admit to mistakes. Can’t you understand that I’m human? I might have fucked things up with what I did to Mal, but I could never have foreseen the consequences-”

“Don’t,” Miles enunciated loudly and clearly in his “teacher” voice. “Don’t even _entertain_ the idea of comparing yourself to me. After all, my plan B was, if anything, more deliciously satisfying because of the long, agonizing denouement that ensued after you got one last taste of fatherhood. You know what I told your children? I told them Daddy’s never coming back...”

Nash watched intently... almost hungrily, his mouth hanging open in rapture. How he loved a good show.

 _ Eh, how much further could this downward spiral extend?  _ Cobb was quite certain he had hit rock bottom. _Knock on wood_. 

Sensing an impending explosion, Johnny stepped forward and took Cobb as easily by the arms as if he were a four year old, twisting them into a lock just short of painful. “Fuck you, you two-faced old corpse. The kids are innocent in this-” 

“They never should have been born. I should have stopped your godforsaken marriage before it ever began. You started the day as an incompetent, talentless architecture student and ended it a greedy, spineless thief. Neither of which was ever good enough to deserve my beautiful daughter’s company.”

Miles then proceeded to withdraw a small silver object from his sleeve. “And you know what else you’ll never be in possession of again...?” _My totem_. Cobb strained hopelessly against his captor, trying to reach out for it.

“This belonged to my sweet angel. You never should have laid your grubby little paws on it,” the professor continued, “and I’ll make sure you’ll never do so again. Nothing of hers was ever yours really: it was taken through the most insidious of deceit. I never taught you to be a thief, no, but you seem to have done very well on your own, learning the craft and using it against my family.”

“You’re evil. How did I not see this from your endless lectures? You’re-you’re fucking psycho...” Cobb spit. _I need to spin it. I need to know._ Though he realized the object had already been tainted, he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that he’d never find out the truth of his existence.

Miles ignored Cobb’s worthless commentary and paced ahead, “In my experience, I have encountered many different types of people. And I know yours well. Oh, _too_ well. Latching on like a parasite to the well-bred and the successful, you suck the life out of your victims until they’re nothing but hollow shells of brittle chitin. She was the cure for what you were afraid of becoming... yourself. Yourself and all the baggage that comes with that person.”

“I’m not perfect. Hell, even _Mal_ wasn’t perfect. But she loved me. And I loved her. What more could you possibly ask of us?”

“You were only in love with the idea of her. People like you are such scum that they revise history in their own minds to suit the fancy of their hindsight. But no, you were not in love with Mal the _person_ ; you were in love with Mal the _beautiful dream_ , Mal the _validation of your existence_ ,” Miles responded coldly and condescendingly, as if Cobb ought to be acquainted with his own thought process.

“I-I...” The thinned outer layers of his recollection were too superficial in depth to dispute Miles’ weighty claims. Cobb knew that filing away all of the emotions that he didn’t want to face could perhaps impair his perception of reality but... to this extent? The possibility that _he_ could be in the wrong almost seemed conceivable at this point.

Miles tipped his head to the thin man, signaling the end of his tirade, and they turned, preparing to leave. Cobb was released from restraint as Johnny tagged along behind his superior. Without another glance at his ex-son-in-law, Miles slipped the top into the pocket of his coat and said, “Goodbye, Dominick. I hope that you burn to a nice toasty crisp in whatever Hell your chosen deity sees it fit to put you in.” The door slammed shut.

And then there was nothing. Nothing but two men trapped in the dark.


	3. Knife in the back

The seconds ticked on into minutes. Cobb felt empty, drained. As if he’d just ran a marathon in place, the earth eroded and sinking beneath his feet, his muscles numbed and nerves dulled. It was hard to believe that his subconscious had been betraying his five senses, feeding him some processed version of reality, full of anesthetizing preservatives. His stomach had never growled louder for the untainted truth.

And there was much feasting to be had.

“He’s right, you know. You’ve never given two shits about anyone but yourself. You were using that poor woman to keep yourself grounded in your distorted version of reality,” a whiny voice harped on from the opposite nook. _Okay, maybe this wasn’t the particular brand of truth I was envisioning_ , Cobb thought as the words battered his weary head like drumsticks. “Wake up, Dom, to the fact that you are far from the perfection you imagine yourself to be.”

“As if you have any right to talk, you backstabbing, dishonorable piece of shit,” Cobb whispered, sharp and menacing.

“And you know perfectly well why I did that, Dom,” Nash continued, “because you’ve engaged in more than a little backstabbing of your own.”

“Bullshit, I don’t owe you anything. I never made any promises,” Cobb protested, unheard as usual.

“I planned on keeping quiet for the remainder of our stay here thanks to our initial scuffle. I could see it was useless to even try,” Nash badgered him with a snide tone. “But, fuck, if you can’t get it through that dense skull of yours right now, I doubt you’ll ever understand a thing about being a human being.”

“Fine, go at it. Have a ball. The fuck do I care what you think.” _Why do you even care if I achieve some state of enlightened understanding?_ Cobb snickered sarcastically.

“Alright,” Nash took a deep breath. “First of all, college. I wasn’t a complete fool. I knew you just wanted to free-ride to an A in that class, but then you surprised me. I mean I saw something there: a real connection.”

Cobb felt a wave of disgust roll unabated through his abdomen, but he remained begrudgingly silent.

“That’s why I came back. That’s why I answered that ad you put out for an architect. I’d heard about what you’d gone through, and I thought that it might have taught you a lesson. But no, you were just the same Dominick Cobb who’d trampled all over me the first time, stomping my body flat like road kill. And you saw nothing wrong with sitting idly by as I was sent to my presumed death. How could you _honestly_ be so cold, Dom, after everything? I knew you felt the same-”

“No, no, no. No...” Cobb sidestepped all of Nash’s biting accusations, deflecting the blows with his already-chipped and worn down shield like a seasoned warrior. Yet something propelled him forward out of the quicksand, and he trudged ahead, closer and closer to the source of those dangerous words.

“I told Saito everything... about how you had me on the carpeted floor of your hotel room just days before the job...” Nash hesitated slightly, cognizant of letting his ranting run amuck, “and that’s why I screwed up midway. I was too preoccupied with other thoughts...”

Cobb wanted to bash the rest of his sniveling face in until it was unrecognizable... as if it would allow him to forget that loathsome expression, laughing and laughing only at him, to wipe away all the unpleasant memories. A clean slate of a face.

Nash’s soliloquy became more and more bitter, as if the sugary exterior of the pill had melted away to reveal the harsh strychnine beneath. “But of course, he didn’t believe me. Haha. You were too good at this game already, Dom. Airtight disguise with the requisite boohoos over the dead wife. Bravo, really. He would never have guessed you were some pathetic repressed homosexual.”

Something _snapped_. The same monster that had taken over his reflexes before emerged in full force. Despite how foreign the phantasm was to him, he now understood. Its name was Cobb. By then he’d reached the grounded Nash, towering above him at an intimidating angle.

“It’s what you all want, isn’t it? You _want_ me to be some crazed lunatic, some depraved pervert whose world revolves entirely around himself?” Cobb asked, struggling to rebuild the fragile ego that had sheltered him for years. But the foundation had been shattered, and the debris scattered about crushed his will. “Well, I’ll just show you how accommodating I can be.”

 _We’ve done this dance before. And we’ll do it again, won’t we? Here, I’ll even lead..._

He reached down, grabbing Nash by the remains of his collar and slamming him back against the wall with a thud. He was no longer in control, the calm calculated Cobb, the one prescribed by family, friends, society. He was Cobb, as raw and unfettered as if he’d been shipwrecked on an island and decided to worship a rotting pig’s head.

“Let’s not speak of me anymore. Let’s talk about you, hm?” Cobb said, pressing up against him, his leg between his former team member’s, forcing them apart. Nash gulped, clearly frightened but also somewhat resigned to his fate. “What are you, a masochist or a moron? I really cannot tell. Why else would you keep coming back to me?”

 _A tango, a waltz, a salsa, you decide. We can dance until we topple over, but I promise you I won’t be the first to go..._

“I f-fucking loved you, okay?” Nash scowled, a drop of sweat slipping out from under his facial visor. In a lower voice, “And I fucking hate loving you...”

“A moron then,” Cobb smirked, shaking his head in disappointment. He then passed his free hand down the spread of Nash’s bony body until he reached the intersection of his legs, taking the protrusion tightly into his grip. “No, a masochist as well it seems, from how much you’re enjoying this.”

He then stepped back, roughly pulling Nash along with him until they reached the lower bunk. Cobb then pushed him onto it, causing him to fall back, and followed him onto the bed, straddling his prey. “Do you remember our first time? The night we got drunk after finishing our final project junior year?”

Nash stared upward, nodding reluctantly.

“Well, this will be nothing like it.” Cobb motioned for Nash to flip over, and he obeyed without a peep, too afraid, perhaps, of the multitude of negative consequences if he did otherwise. Unfastening his grey tie, Cobb then bound Nash’s wrists together, murmuring, “Just in case you decide, however unwisely, to struggle.”

 _Forward and back. And a spin, and a spin! Steady now, just follow my steps..._

A firm tug on Nash’s drawers and a finagling of his own buckle, and their bodies were inseparably connected. Cobb spit into his hand and rubbed the saliva onto himself. It’d been way too long since he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasies under lock and key within the innermost compartments of his mind, the _only_ ones that could bring him to completion.

“Did you...” Cobb paused to groan as he pulled apart Nash’s surprisingly fleshy cheeks and entered, the explicit view of their intimate connection causing the blood to pound through him with a heightened ferocity. “Did you miss me?”

There was no reply on Nash’s part except for an involuntary arch of the back, his fingers grasping at nothingness. With each self-serving stroke into what may as well been a prone slab of flesh, he pushed Nash’s face deeper and deeper into the pillow at the head of the bed until he heard muffled moans and felt the body below him rigidify.

 _Dancing with you, I feel that my feet never touch the ground. Take me away..._

He, too, quickly succumbed to the clenching rhythm of release. Along with the impending flood of ecstasy, images broke through the dam of his reluctance, sending a torrent of déjà vu back to him. He could almost relive the scenes: Nash’s embrace as they first awkwardly ventured into the realm of soft touches and glistening wet skin, both inexperienced and inebriated but so damn... happy. _Happy. What the fuck does that mean again_?

But, in contrast, as he came his only thoughts were laden with remorse, remorse he thought he’d washed his hands of: _I’m sorry, Mal, for never loving you the way you wanted. For always having someone else on my mind, at the tip of my tongue, in my arms as we swing to the music._

Collapsing, he rolled over to his side, mind clouded by the rush of endorphins. Unconscious of his actions and following in some distantly tangible routine, he released Nash’s hands from the tie and lightly kissed the spot where neck became back.

 _Huh_? He instantly recoiled from what, at that instant, felt like the natural thing to do, although he knew it wasn’t what _he_ , Dom Cobb, would ever do. Yet he knew he’d done it before... and he yearned for nothing more than the opportunity to do so again.

Is this what happiness felt like? Or that elusive and inherently destructive ideal they call love? Being opened up like a dissection in a lab, vulnerable and intimately exposed for your partner to scrutinize every fucking detail?

He wanted to shrink away, pop his head back into his shell, his fortress, but it was no more, the threads of existence unraveling in the polar wind. Cobb felt so cold, naked against the ruthless elements of uncharted tundra. So he clung to the only available source of warmth, a dancing flame, insignificant against the expansive horizon.

 _Sure our legs ache, our feet are blistered... but twirling with you, like a top that’ll never fall... that made it all worthwhile._

With Nash cradled in his arms, Cobb fell soundly asleep.

***

Multi-colored lights flickered in the semi-darkness of the crowded karaoke bar. The three of them filtered in, lucky enough to find a booth on the side of the room. Above them was a banner that read “Time Machine Tuesday.”

Cobb slid in next to his wife, reaching under the table for her hand, but she was already beckoning for a waiter. Arthur sat opposite the couple, facing them both with a satisfied smile. They sifted through the long list of songs in the binder provided with the menu.

“Yikes, so many choices,” Mal said. “But we have plenty of time tonight. I asked Maman to watch the kids.”

“I can’t say I’m familiar with most of these,” Cobb laughed, going down the list, tracing the titles with his fingertip. “Plus I’m not much of a singer really.”

“Don’t worry, Dom,” Arthur said reassuringly, patting him on the hand. “I have just the song for you.”

He then nodded to the couple before going to the DJ’s box to submit the group’s requests. Arthur had, as Cobb knew, an extensive library of musical tastes, ranging from classical to post-rock and everything in between, so he trusted his best friend’s judgment.

The first of them to be called was Arthur himself, who, with his trademark confident smile and military posture, took the stage, immediately putting the audience at ease with his “I’ve done this a million and one times” body language. The music started playing and his voice, smooth but not overly so, filled the room as everyone watched intently.

“Each night in dreams I see your face, memories time cannot erase[1],” Arthur opened his dark eyes again, searching through the audience until he landed on a particularly focused Mal. “Then I awake and find you gone. I’m so blue and all alone[2].”

He lowered the microphone, letting the refrain recite its verse, all the while swaying to the music. “That lonesome feelin' all the time, knowing you cannot be mine[3]...”

“Too far away from lips so sweet and warm[4],” he really belted as he resumed singing, enthralling in his intensity. Arthur took one hand from the microphone and extended it as if he could, if he tried hard enough, touch the object of his desires. “Just out of reach of my two open arms[5]...”

The room exploded with clapping and hollering when he stepped down and returned to the booth, grinning due to the appreciation received.

“You were amazing,” Mal avowed, her hand fluttering to her chest as if this had been her first time hearing him sing. Meanwhile their drinks had arrived, and Cobb gulped his scotch down like air, flagging down the waiter yet again.

They listened through a few disheartening renditions of Elvis and Bing Crosby before Cobb’s name was called to go up to the stage. He shrugged. Might as well give it a try; it’s Mal’s birthday after all. Pecking her on the cheek, he stood and strolled towards the awaiting microphone.

The music started playing, the twangy notes of honkytonk reverberating across the bar. He read from the block letters floating across the blue screen, “What’s the use to deny we’ve been living a lie[6]...” _Strange that Arthur would pick something with such gloomy lyrics for a night out,_ he thought. _I guess he probably just likes the song_.

“...the kisses we steal we know were not real. So why should we try anymore[7]?” The words. The blatant applicability of each suffocated him, and he wondered how he was able to go on. He was someone who preferred to ignore these glaring issues as his way of coping. He wanted to protest. But he couldn’t stop and fall apart, not with a hundred eyes on him.

Despite his unfamiliarity with the song, the crowd seemed to enjoy his performance, taking his inadvertent choke-ups as dramatic effect and therefore an intended part of the show. “The dreams that we knew can never come true... they’re gone to return no more[8].”

With the bright stage lights on his face, he could barely make out the people in the audience. He was alone up there with the words that weren’t his. “False love like ours fades with the flowers, so why should we try anymore[9]?”

When he reseated himself next to Mal, he noticed her reddened nose and a slight sniffle that she tried to hide. _Please don’t take those lyrics to heart_ , he wanted to say. But she was up next.

She was wearing her favorite outfit, a tight-fitting black mini-dress with gravity-defying heels. Cobb couldn’t help but notice the awed expressions on the faces of the men and the women as they watched her slink to the center.

“Tu me fais tourner la tête. Mon manège à moi, c'est toi[10],” she sang in her husky voice, any residual tears completely dried. It was Edith Piaf, this much Cobb could tell. _Was she looking at me, speaking to me?_ he wondered.

“Quelle vie on a, tous les deux, quand on s'aime comme nous deux[11],” she crooned in her signature vibrato, a spot-on impression of the French songbird. She almost kissed the microphone with how close her rouged lips came to the device, a sensual yet devious display certain to be a crowd-pleaser.

Cobb could catch some of the words, but his French proficiency had really gone downhill since college as he and Mal spoke in English with each other and with the children. But the meaning was clear as Mal sat back down blushing at the raucous listeners because the connected gaze never broke between her and the francophone Arthur.

Cobb couldn’t order his drinks fast enough for how quickly he downed them. _Liquid amnesia_ , he thought sarcastically. _Cheers_.

* * *

[1] [[2]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref2) [[3]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref3) [[4]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref4) [[5]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref5) “Just Out of Reach” by Patsy Cline.                                                                                      

[6] [[7]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref7) [[8]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref8) [[9]](pasteword.htm?1290982273#_ftnref9) “Why Should We Try Anymore” by Hank Williams.

[10] “Mon Manège à Moi” by Edith Piaf. (You make my head spin. My merry-go-round, it’s you.)

[11] “Mon Manège à Moi” by Edith Piaf. (What a life we have, both of us, when we love each other like we do.)


	4. Our consciousness

“The fuck is this shit? Yo, Johnny, come check this out,” a revolted voice called out, its cracking pitch ringing painfully in Cobb’s ears. “We gotta couple o’ fags on our hands!” 

Coming to, Cobb blinked his eyes a few times before his vision cleared. He thought he could still hear the melody of the old French song playing in the background, but quickly it disappeared along with the hurtful memory. A sleeping Nash lay next to him, still on his stomach, his pants halfway pulled back up in an awkward sort of state. He mumbled something nonsensical akin to “not coming back for you,” but, of course, it meant nothing to Cobb.

As for himself, he looked down the length of his front: just as disheveled and leaving even less to the imagination. Sitting up in a scramble, he adjusted himself and zipped his trousers up as fast as his fingers would move. Nash also startled awake and began to stretch his muscles out, yawning as he returned from the dreamworld, the contents of which Cobb could only guess at.

As he heard the footsteps approaching, Cobb pulled the prison blanket, its texture not unlike that of sandpaper over Nash’s bottom half, to hide what evidence existed. He then took a hold of the bar above him, swinging himself over Nash and out of the bed, donning his usual nonchalant demeanor like a costume change as Johnny entered the cell.

“I want what you’re smokin’, dude,” Johnny said to the pink-complexioned guard as he crossed his arms and tapped his foot exasperatedly, “unless it’s cock or something gay like that. I mean seriously... you interrupted my exercise for _this_?”

The other man shook his head, “Naw, man. I swear they was like huggin’ in bed naked or somethin’. Fucked up shit.”

These were the attitudes he was used to, the derogatory remarks pelting Nash’s kind with irrational hatred. ... _His_ kind?   
  
“I think you might just be projecting, Red,” Johnny said, bopping him upside the head before turning to leave. “Oh yeah, and make sure you hose them down _good_ this time. I’m tired of cleaning up after your messes.”

The disgruntled guard swore to himself, obviously pissed that his plan to impress his superior had backfired so inelegantly, as he pulled out the thick firefighter-style hose from a box on the wall of the hallway and unraveled it. “Y’all guys need ta strip down so I can uh... wash y’all off,” he said, balking at the inevitable homoerotic undertones of the situation.

Cobb did as he was told, folding his somewhat grimy clothes and placing them on the top bunk as he stood where Red beckoned. The hose felt like thousands of needles piercing his skin due to the pressure of the water, and there were patches of redness where it hit. But he welcomed the stinging pain of his baptism of sorts. He was, after all, supposed to be renewed, wasn’t he? _Then why do I feel exactly the same?_

“You too, Mickey the Talkin’ Mouse.” The spray then moved on to Nash, who’d disrobed, his wrinkled rags littering the cemented floor. He winced but held his ground, being, or at least he should have been, accustomed to pain by this point. Cobb couldn’t help but watch him, studying his face. _I... I probably shouldn’t have done what I did._

 _ Which part? Taking him by force or taking him at all? _ the voice, at least, was a strand of continuity in his mental breakdown, albeit an unpleasant one. He wasn’t sure he knew the answer.

“A’ight, that’s it. Now y’all kin get back to what y’all were doin’.” the fiery-haired guard gagged, dragging the dripping hose behind him as he exited their world.

Cobb watched as the small pond of water trickled in braided channels towards the tiny grate in the middle of the room, each droplet sifting through the slits in the metal circle and disappearing. The rest of the ground, especially that beneath the two of them, was darkened gray with damp concrete.

It was at that point that he realized Cobol hadn’t provided any towels, and the dripping prisoners, not having changes of clothing, couldn’t dress because they’d be wet for hours in the chilly swamp. He’d rather shiver for a few minutes now than for the rest of his time awake. _Great_ , he lamented. _Not only am I emotionally naked but physically as well? Someone up there must have a sick sense of humor_.

He again laid his eyes on Nash, running them along his form like the drops coursing down his skin, conflicted emotions ebbing and flowing in the tide of his consciousness. This time the electricity was undeniable, that sudden pulse of blood through his veins causing him to wonder each time how he could have “mistaken” it for heart palpitations in the past. Fighting away his queasy repugnance, he found that... yeah, there was attraction alright, a fact that hadn’t changed since he’d first seen Nash in his Architecture course years ago.

And ah... Nothing felt better than the decision to stop lying to oneself. Cobb instantly felt lighter, more empowered and more stable in his sense of self. _You finally ‘fessing up? A little slow, are we?_

“H-Hey...” Cobb finally uttered, firmly shattering the pristine silence.

But Nash didn’t reply. He simply crossed his arms over his chest in a huff, turning his face away from view.

“Look, I’m sorry about uh... last night. Really sorry this time,” he offered shakily but with the utmost sincerity. Then he managed a sheepish grin. _Oh foolhardy pride_. “But I’ve come to a realization.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Nash grimaced. “I told myself I wasn’t going to go through another round of this shit.”

“What?” _Seriously, what?_

“What do you think you did last time? When I approached you about the architect position, thinking in some ungodly misstep in logic that you might have changed?”

“Um... I hired you to design Saito’s apartment. And...” he nearly choked as the vaulted doors flew open in remembrance. “Did I really repeat my own actions?”

“Well let’s see. First you treated me like a bitch, check, then you got a hard-on and decided to fuck me, check, next you try to woo me with your apologies and supposed epiphanies, check, oh and you know what the next step is? Your selective repressive memory kicks in and you drop me like a sack of bricks. Fuck that noise,” Nash snarled angrily. “I’ll have no part in this, even though I was partly responsible for restarting the cycle. Knew I shouldn’t have tried to help you through after what you did to me last time. Knew I shouldn’t have started feeling sorry for your selfish ass.”

“I swear to you, I had no recollection of this. All I knew was that you, for some odd reason, betrayed us back there and that you were extremely bitter upon seeing me again,” Cobb pleaded. “I thought it was just you...”

“Right, it’s never you, never your fault, Dom. Because you’re perfect, remember?”

“I don’t believe that anymore, if I ever did.”

“You were so haughty, believing you could rise up above us other homos and overcome your ‘mental confusion.’ Ha. How many other disorders did you rack up perpetuating your denial and psychosis?”

“I... I was just trying to live a normal life. You’re supposed to go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. I mean, there was no visible option to the contrary.”

“Only because you chose to be blind to them. You and your blind spots,” Nash laughed derisively. “The fact still remains that you put your own interests above everyone else’s. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint the venerable Dominick Cobb once again, but I must excuse myself from his schizophrenic charade. You know, for my _own_ sanity.”

He thought he’d broken it off with Guilt. That Guilt had sufficiently haunted him, whittling away at his faculties until he finally made amends to Mal’s memory at the end of the Fischer job. _We had a beautiful relationship, Guilt, my dear, but I’m afraid we have nothing in common anymore_ , he’d thought joyously at the airport.

But no, it turned out Guilt wasn’t so easily spurned. Like a jilted lover refusing to part ways, Guilt believed erroneously that they were soul mates and consequently returned, more ferociously desperate than ever before. Guilt would appear in his morning coffee, around every corner, standing sullenly behind him in the mirror. If only you could put a restraining order on Guilt.

***

So they split up once again. The pitter-patter dripping of the ceiling leak all that rescued the chamber from complete silence as Cobb returned to his claimed bunk and Nash to his refuge of a corner. He pulled his ensemble back on, ostensibly to hide the gaping void in his chest. His short-lived sense of worth—derived from detaching himself from his escapist neuroses—had long since fizzled, a despairing emptiness where it had once rested.

Rest. _Rest from what? The weariness of living as a pitiful waste of resources?_ When things were looking rough, Cobb could always count on that ever-present voice to kick him in the shins.

 _ Yeah, yeah. I just regret having held out for this long. _

He contemplated what he’d done. His whole life had apparently consisted of lying and stealing people’s valuable personal information and their livelihoods, of tearing people down to build himself up. And the brunt of it had apparently come down on Nash, who for some inexplicable reason besides—if one should choose to believe in it—Fate, would always return, ready for another round of self-destruction...

Then his mind vanished. Cobb reappeared, holding onto a bar on a subway car. _Paris_. He’d traveled this line thousands of times on the way to class and back. _Another dreaded memory?_

But he felt foreign within his own dream. The projections glared at him disdainfully, triggered to attention by his conspicuous presence. Something was different.

He seemed to have incurred the ire of the middle-aged bald man sitting closest to him especially. He was reading a copy of _Le Monde_ while shooting the dirtiest of looks to Cobb between every other word. What could only have been the man’s son—his splitting image beneath a mop of wavy brown hair—had inherited his penchant for ego-eviscerating expressions did likewise, all the while perusing a Tintin comic book and clutching a worn teddy bear.

Not any more excited than they were about sharing an enclosed space, Cobb decided to get off the train at the first stop. _Hôtel de Ville_.

Instead of seeing the city hall as expected, he opened the door to another locale entirely. _This definitely isn’t one of my dreams, although the tram is similar to my elevator_ , he milled over the organizational technique. _Apparently I’m not the only one with a “prison” of memories._

The scene constructing itself before his eyes wasn’t entirely unknown to him, however. The interior of the hotel room had a very modern, minimalist appeal. Simple, elegant colors in a black, white, and green scheme painted the sparse furniture, which consisted of a low, black coffee table surrounded by white sofas in a half moon. There was a Rothko-style painting on the wall next to him, and the carpet was weaved of a lush green polyester.

A knocking at the door. Cobb found himself walking towards the front in some sort of impulse turned trance, his face curled into silent horror as his hands unlatched the lock and turned the doorknob, like some invisible puppeteer was tugging on _just_ the right strings. He didn’t want to see what awaited him.

It was a dreadfully nervous Nash. He knew this, of course, his own version of the memory coming back to him. But this had a different flavor, being of someone else’s recollection after all. He now understood what it was like being a projection, a meaningless drone programmed by some watchmaker master’s subconscious.

Nash, on the other hand, was not bound by the laws set forth in the dreamscape. He stared at Cobb with bitter longing, as if he were looking upon the one thing he desired and the one thing he could never have. “Hey... long time no see,” he said, emotionless as if reading from a repetitive script.

“Yeah, it’s been awhile,” Cobb felt himself respond automatically. “Come in.”

He showed the tense new hire to the sitting area, offering a drink before taking a seat on the couch himself. Nash declined, overly polite in his diction, and sat down uneasily opposite.

“Now let’s not waste any more time. We have to catch a plane to Venezuela first thing in the morning. And you’ll need plenty of preparation for this job because I can’t afford to fail,” Cobb felt his lips move. _Wow, am I really such a bossy son of a bitch_? “Are you ready for the briefing?”

“No, actually. No, I’m not,” Nash replied, with a sorrowful stare in his brown eyes. Cobb stopped moving entirely: like a glitch in the system he became no more than a frame in time. Nash must have hit the pause button on his dream.

Nash stood and walked over to his statue, cupping Cobb’s face within his hands, looking down at him with lids at half-mast. He rubbed his cheek in small circles with his right thumb. “Oh, if you only knew what was coming...”

 _ And you said I was mental... Here I am, might as well be a shade trapped in  _ your _vault of memories._

“I’m gonna change my mind and ask for a drink later on, to break the tension as we discuss the plan. I felt like it would help me relax, you know? But then one turned into several, and then it was like we’d never left each other, never parted ways since last we spoke,” Nash recounted to what he believed was only himself. Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on Cobb’s motionless lips, bittersweet and tender. 

Cobb felt the strangest sensation of a simultaneous reflex to pull away and absolute lack of control of his muscles, a discordance of mind and body. _This doesn’t make any sense_ , he thought. _How are we even dreamsharing_? _And worst of all, why am I still a prisoner, even here_?

“The way we ground our bodies together as if doing so could make us whole again, could make us one... But we don’t have the pause button in reality. Each moment is fleeting, ephemeral, no matter how much you want to hold on, it floats away like wisps of smoke from a dying fire.” Nash removed one of his warm hands from Cobb’s cheek as if he had an momentary desire to reach out and grab the tiny flecks of dust suspended in midair around the couple.

“You said, as we were huddled together afterwards, that you were sorry. That you’d come to. Should have been a lawyer, Dom, you could lie your way out of anything. Once upon a time you could even have convinced me you were a compassionate guy,” Nash chuckled darkly as he ran his fingers through Cobb’s neatly combed blond hair. “I like to forget all this when I relish in this memory. I like to bask in the shadow of delusion sometimes, just like you, because here I’m safe from doubts and insecurities. Here I can just _be_.... and screw everything else.”

Cobb felt like his own recurring thoughts were being read back to him through Nash’s narration. What they suffered from was the opposite of claustrophobia. Those four enclosed walls—lines drawn to close their worlds off to the concept of infinity—what they held was certainty.

And frankly, Cobb couldn’t imagine any sort of beginning without an eventual end.

“But sometimes, when I’m feeling lustful for that incomparable reality check that is pain, I wonder to myself... if you remembered tonight, would you regret it all over again?” Nash asked rhetorically. _He knew the answer._

And then Time jarred itself back into movement just as suddenly as it had stopped. _Clap on, clap off_ , Cobb recognized with an internal bout of amusement. _Quite the magician you are, Nash._

It had to be internal considering he was still the marionette of a very focused Nash. It was as if he were on a mission to complete a sacred daily ritual, dragging Cobb behind him, like the powerless lackey that he was, back towards the subway train.

Once aboard, Cobb once again spotted the man and the young boy out of the corner of his eye. This time they were much less preoccupied with his presence, the father reading to his kid from the comic book, their faces enchanted by the world contained within.

As the brakes screeched to a halt at their next destination, _Gare de Lyon_ , Nash hurriedly marched out of the railcar, Cobb trailing dutifully behind. It was the messy dorm room of an architecture student: drafting supplies, paper, pens, books, calculators strewn across the tiled floor. Another layer of mess overlaid the former: Nash wasn’t a neat person by any means, and his preferred method of organization was to toss things on the ground. That way he would know to finish what he’d started or be in danger of drowning in a pile of old socks. And yet another array obscured the rest, a third called heartbreak—which consisted of empty cartons of ice cream and used tissue boxes—decorating the rest like a colorful dash of sprinkles.

“The morning after our first and last time during college you were already gone when I awoke. I realized things had changed, but I thought they would be for the better... that maybe you would acknowledge what we’d been building up to for months as classmates, project partners, even friends. Instead of becoming ‘official’ for whatever that entails, you told me via a note under my door that you didn’t want to see me anymore. I wanted to shout at you, ‘Why?’ but you weren’t there when I needed to pummel you with my questions, my frustrations,” Nash began as they delicately trod the narrow path into the center of the room. He stopped without a warning and turned to face his expressionless companion. 

“We’d wanted each other for so long, I could feel it in every sidelong glance you tossed in my direction, every time our fingers barely brushed against each other. But you told me there would never be anything more... and thus commenced the process of forgetting me.” The room started to shake, fragmenting like shards of glass, the walls breaking apart at the seams. In one final explosion, all the pieces flew in a whirlwind pattern around and past the two of them into the air. Cobb could point out individual notebooks, rulers, and empty photo frames among the debris of the past as it was cast into the blue beyond, like doves flapping their weary wings to freedom.

“I don’t know what you did with the times we had together. Maybe you projected all those memories of us onto her as if those months with me had never occurred, like photoshopping her face over my image.” With the annihilation of the room, the scene before them was now a street in Paris, much like the one he and Ariadne had dreamed up her first time going under. Cobb searched around, only to catch a glimpse of Mal sitting in a chair, shaded by the red umbrella atop the table, which was embossed with the logo _Café Debussy_. She was waiting for him patiently at the cafe where they’d gone for a first informal date. He headed towards her.

“I was alone to bear our secret, but, like a tree falling in the woods, a one-sided relationship might as well never have existed at all. So I lost myself in my work and became a top tier architect as I’d originally hoped. But it meant nothing, not being able to share my success with you. And no matter what I did little reminders of you would trickle into my designs as if my subconscious were reminding me that all these faded memories that kept me tousling in bed each night... _were_ in fact real,” Nash said, his voice becoming slightly fainter with each step that Cobb took. _So that’s what he’s always rolling around and mumbling about._ He then reached the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from the gorgeous brunette who smiled coyly at his arrival.

 _ Oh, Mal _ , he longed to say. Seeing her again now in some madman’s book of dreams, their years together flashed before his eyes. _All those wasted years you could have spent with someone who truly loved you for who you were, not what you represented._ He almost felt like his projected body was responding to his intense reactions, his throat seeming to twist into a knot. _I can’t say this enough... but I’m sorry._ “I’m sorry...” 

“When I first saw you with her, chatting at this very cafe, I initially thought that you had become so desperate for your letter grade that you’d sleep with your professor’s daughter for a chance at gaining favor, perhaps a teaching assistant position. But then it became painfully clear to me that you’d convinced yourself somehow that she was the answer to all the uncertainties you had, that she could bring you closer to becoming the person you always wanted to be, someone you could be proud to call ‘self,’ someone you could stand to love. It was, pardon my French, like watching a fucking _trainwreck_ ,” Nash’s voice gradually rose from slow and detached to shrill and uncontrollable.

 _ Boom _ ! A blast of wind in Cobb’s face caused his eyes to close instinctively, his arm raising up to shield his face. But as he looked up again, Mal was gone, replaced by the passing of a freight train two feet in front of him. It smashed through the cafe and uprooted the asphalt from the road, plummeting on some one-way suicidal trek to the ends of the world.

 _ I came to terms with the guilt of performing inception on her, yes, but I had never been able to face the other reason for her fall... the guilt over keeping her around despite who I really am. Until now... _

“But it was one that I couldn’t peel my eyes from. Sure it was horrible to see happening before me in slow motion—the orange sparks flying from the rails, the ignition of nearby vegetation into a red sea of fire, the grinding of the metal as it crumpled like a sheet—but there’s nothing more terrifying than averting your eyes and _not_ knowing. So I stood on the sidelines cheering for the other team, the only fan for ‘You and Me’ while the world spurred you on in your hopeless quest for self-fulfillment. I wish I could say I hoped you’d find happiness, but I didn’t. I’m just as selfish as you or any other person: I wanted you all for myself. I wanted you to have that rough awakening—dunked into a tub of cold water—to the abysmal fact that your world is not real.”

 _ She was gone _ . Never had it felt more real to Cobb than now. The blasting of the locomotive as it burned those hideous towers of smoky coal, spewing an equally odious noise from its horn. Life was really that cut and dry, really that unbearably brisk. She was gone as suddenly as she had come into his life.

And what to make of his undeniably short life from this point on... was entirely up to him.

He noticed a movement in the distance. The little boy from the subway was hobbling towards them, covered in blood and bawling. His dad was no longer with him.

Nash greeted him with a brusque nod and coldly took the boy’s hand as they walked away together, along the fiery path of rubble left by the offending train, backs facing Cobb. From where he was, Cobb couldn’t tell that they weren’t one and the same.   



	5. J'accuse, j'accepte

Cobb felt especially groggy—as if he’d been under the effects of an organic Somnacin—when he phased back into his own consciousness, wiggling his fingers and toes and sighing blissfully at the reconquered control of his own muscles.

He was met with a blurry view of Nash across the small dungeon. He’d already been up for a few minutes, yawning and readjusting his slant against his rocky bed.

“Nash...”

“What do you want this time? Another pity party? Because I am all out of confetti,” Nash retorted but without his earlier flaring ire.

“Thought we knew each other pretty well back then, but I would have never guessed you were such a _poet_ ,” Cobb grinned wistfully.

He narrowed his eyes. “Is this another one of your hallucinations? What are you insinuating?”

“It _could_ all have been one giant bout of psychosis, yes. But I have a feeling there is an alternate explanation,” Cobb replied. “I think I just joined in on one of your dreams...”

Nash turned bright red. “If this is all some big joke...”

“No, no. We went back to the night we met to plan for the Saito job. Then to your college dorm room and-”

Nash’s face shifted from venomous ruby to awestruck grin in a matter of seconds. “I’d heard people speak of it before... the possibility,” he explained, interrupting Cobb, “but I wasn’t sure if it actually existed until now... This is really exciting.”

 _Sounds like I’ve unleashed the nerd in him._ “What is ‘it’ exactly?”

“Shared consciousness. If two people are on the same mental or emotional wavelength and concentrate on each other’s image right before falling to sleep, they can manage to achieve dreamsharing without the aid of a PASIV device.”

Cobb thought back to the training he’d received from Arthur when the latter had been initiated into the ranks of the top secret Dreamsharing Program. His superiors had called for the mix of scientists, engineers, psychologists, and the most talented and motivated of the regular troops to find—through trustworthy social and professional connections—architects to design adequate mazes for battle simulation. Cobb, of course, whom he’d known since birth, was first on Arthur’s to-call list.

But he had to admit he wasn’t paying too much attention during the explanatory panels, which dragged on sluggishly, Powerpoint presentation after monotone lecturer. So it was understandable that he hadn’t gotten the particular memo about this phenomenon.

“Goddamn,” Nash repeated to himself as he stood, knees wobbling. He looked like he’d been struck by lightning... and survived without a scratch, except the one he was making on his own head in wonderment. “This is... I never expected this.”

Cobb propped himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and resting his chin in his hands. He had an itching inkling that, perhaps, something within him was fundamentally and irreversibly warped—or fixed, depending on who you asked.

“Every night I hoped against all hope that it’d be you there, listening to what I had to say like you never did before,” Nash raised his eyebrow, echoing Cobb’s assessment yet again. “And it finally was... Maybe you _have_ changed, Dom.”

“Third time’s the charm, right?” _Let it be true, oh please, let it be true._

Nash stepped towards him just like he had on the first night. He approached the seated Cobb and held out his hands, brushing them along his jawline and the side of his neck.

“Mm, against all semblance of logic, I may have to take one of your ‘leaps of faith.’ You have to promise me one thing though... Please don’t kill me again,” Nash moved his hands downwards to grasp Cobb’s neck, pressing his thumbs gingerly into the twin valleys of veins.

“Don’t strangle the life out of me, Dom. I’m not sure I have it in me to revive myself this time: I’m a rat not a cockroach,” Nash gave a half-hearted “heh” and leaned towards Cobb’s face, sealing his chapped lips with a kiss.

Despite not, as before, being frozen as if he were caught by Medusa’s gaze, Cobb _didn’t_ recoil this time. He kissed back, pressing upwards, his nose flattened by the plastic visor... but he didn’t mind. It was good to _feel_ again.

As he sank into the kiss, however, one image kept appearing in the darkness of his eyelids. The last scene he witnessed before being pushed out of the dreamworld. When they reluctantly broke contact to catch their breaths, Cobb asked, “So... who was the little boy?”

Nash, ever the chameleon, turned powder white and retreated from his affectionate touch. “I-I uh... I didn’t mean for him to appear.”

This only made him all the more curious. “But he appeared anyway, didn’t he?”

“Yeah...” _So it’s someone that weighs heavily on his subconscious._

“Was he someone from your past?” Cobb asked, realizing how little he really knew about his ex-team member. They’d just mutually and tacitly consented not to touch upon such irrelevant subject matter. But the ice had to be broken sometime if they were to earn a modicum of trust from one another. “A friend? A brother?”

“No, it was me,” Nash mumbled, barely audible, crossing his arms over himself. “I was that kid.”

“You were in some kind of accident then?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Must have been traumatizing at that age... to lose your father and all.” Cobb took a gamble and guessed at the details of the tragedy.

Nash tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat dictated otherwise. “It was.”

“At least he seemed to care about you.”

Nash furrowed his brow quizzically. “Does that mean yours didn’t?”

Cobb took a deep breath. _Quid pro quo, I guess._ “My father was a gruff military man, strong and upright in mind and body. He wouldn’t talk much, but when he did, people listened. One of his favorite topics was the war. That’s where he met Arthur’s dad: they’re old military buddies. I always looked up to him, wanted to be like him... which is why it was all the more unacceptable to me when I realized what I was...”

“I imagine he didn’t like the fact that you went to college in some wussy field either.”

“Not one bit. I would call home, and all he’d talk about was how he’d heard Arthur had done this and that training, that Arthur was promoted... I mean he’s my best friend and I was happy for him, but damn...”

“They made you rivals?”

“I mean, not exactly. We tried to get past that.”

“Dom, you are perfectly normal in being jealous of him-”

“I’m not jealous. Never was. He’s my friend.”

“Let go of all those misconceptions or you’ll never get over your distortions.”

“It might sound strange to you, but we did believe in all that shit like loyalty and honor due to our upbringing, so we would never think of trying to downplay the other’s successes.“

Nash laughed derisively. “You sure fell off that wagon.”

“Yeah, well... _Arthur_ never stopped believing in it.”

“Right, and that’s why he fucked your wife?”

“Oh fuck off,” Cobb said, shoving Nash back with one foot. It was a difficult subject to talk about, but he figured he owed a lifetime of honesty by this point. “I know he felt bad about it, but he never had bad intentions towards me or our marriage. We both wanted Mal’s happiness above everything else, and this was the arrangement she found tolerable. Plus I’d much rather he took over my role than some stranger she’d met two minutes before at a bar.”

“I’ll just have to resign myself to never understanding the two of you and how you operate without shooting each other in the foot,” Nash put up his hands in defeat.

“That uh... might be the best course of action,” Cobb nodded, hurriedly trying to change the subject. “Speaking of backstabbing and illogicality... This is what I’m wondering: why in the name of all that is holy and unholy do you still like me despite all you know? All that I’ve done to you? I mean, fuck, I’m surprised you haven’t murdered me in my sleep.”

“I’m not exactly an angel myself, Dom. And I mean, come on, you were bitterly repressed, wrapped up in some prickly cocoon to ward off anyone who’d dare come close enough to examine its contents. No matter what you’ve done in the past, I know that you aren’t beyond repair. There’s something good—okay, maybe just decent—waiting to burst out when the time is right. Until then I can accept your _myriad_ flaws,” Nash smirked as he sat down next to Cobb.

“You may not be an angel, but I must say you have unbeatable candor,” Cobb joined in on the humor. “Besides, what have you even done besides sell out your supposed friends? I mean, thinking back, you did have a reason for doing so. I did say ‘every man for himself’ after all.” _Though the real reason was me being... me._

“Oh, don’t give me that crap,” Nash responded dismissively. “You do remember all the spying and bribery and identity theft we had to commit to even learn about the existence of Saito’s love nest, right? Contrary to what your twisted brain might have told you about taking credit for everyone else’s work, most of that shady stuff was my idea.”

“Yeah, you seemed rather adept at committing petty crimes,” Cobb admitted, thinking back. “You could have given Eames a run for his money, the way you fingered that woman’s purse.”

“I mean,” Nash said, biting his lip as he journeyed back through the nuclear wasteland that was his memory lane, “I uh left home at an early age and had to fend for myself. Me against the world. I had to lie and cheat and steal to even stay alive. So yeah, you could say I’m a realist. I maintain no illusions about righteous justifications, and I have no qualms about selling out and blackmailing people when it’s number one,” he pointed to himself with his thumb, “or someone I care about on the line.”

“You make me feel good about being bad,” Cobb grinned approvingly.

“And to think you were raised on wholesome beliefs in absolutist morality and chasing that white picket fence American dream,” Nash chuckled. “I would honestly _never_ have guessed that about you. I mean next thing you know, you’d be harping on like some loony about ‘true love’ or something.”

Cobb looked bewildered. “You’re the one composing sonnets of undying passion for me in your dreams, dude...”

“But the thing is I don’t necessarily believe in ‘true love’ the way most people talk about it. All hearts and rainbows and sunshine. No, I don’t. But I do know that some inexplicable force out there keeps me coming back to you. Whether the result is destructive or beneficial is immaterial to this force. I don’t think of it in those sappy terms, I just know that it doesn’t have to make any sense, what we have.”

“I kinda see what you’re getting at,” Cobb studied Nash’s explanation. “I thought what I had with Mal was true love: I worshipped her like an idol. She was a dream embodied in a person, perfection on two legs. But... I know now that that is not a relationship. I let her know from day one that she was the only one that mattered-”

“And then she treated you as such,” Nash nodded knowingly. “You were wrong about Mal. No matter how amazed with her you were, the fact of the matter is that she was still human. And being human is to be self-interested. She kept you bound and numbed in order to pursue her own version of a perfect life and perfect world. She is the one who wanted you to lose yourself forever in that Limbo, remember? And then she played ping-pong with your heart, pitting you against your best friend in a tournament you could never hope to win. You’re no angel but then again neither was she.”

The ends of Cobb’s lips twitched as if he were trying to smile to mask his desolation. He didn’t want to be told again and again that he was living a lie, but he knew he needed the tough love. So he let Nash’s tongue lash him until the welts rose. _This is not what I pictured when I imagined a healing process_ , he laughed between figurative tears.

***

Over the new few day-night cycles, Cobb felt somewhat rejuvenated. The internal welts were stinging him less and less each time he thought about Mal and the memories that had wrestled free, the pages ripped from his library of untouchable experiences as they glided out of the musty mausoleum, riding the thermals into the sky. The blue, cloudless sky that he longed to see, if only just once more.

But by and by the voice would return, creeping back in from what he had assumed was its final resting ground. But from the crypt its words would rise, echoing against its sarcophagus. It would remind him that he hadn’t changed a bit.

 _Who are you trying to fool? That pathetic lovesick puppy of a roommate or... yourself?_

Cobb thought that ignoring it might help, but it chirped on, undiminished in vigor, causing him to question everything. He considered throwing all of his so-called progress out the window. Because what did it matter? When the time came, he would revert to being a selfish jerk in denial. _Might as well save the energy for more plausible goals like waking up permanently from reality._

He tried then to think it through himself, but the attempt was wholly ineffective as he knew the voice could hear any subversive meditations and react preemptively in its own defense. So any time he tried to ponder a way out, it inevitably led to circular logic led to conclusory rationalizing led back to square one with the added bonus of a raging headache. This only tickled the voice harder in its irreverent chortling: _Even if you could somehow think independently, Dominick, what makes you believe you can_ ever _justify this wishy-washy self-help bullshit after all you’ve done_? _The world has plenty of reformed assholes, ever more self-righteous in their crusades because they’ve actually convinced themselves that they’ve changed, without needing you to join the ranks._

He could feel the unease brewing within him, the bubbles forming, the steam starting to waft from the top, but he couldn’t point his finger on a boiling point as he kept taking deep breaths to air out the blistering heat.

So it was completely unexpected and out of nowhere that he broke down.

Cobb had joined Nash in his corner, leaning up against him—the portrait of contentment. Nash tilted his head downwards as well, resting it atop the blond mop. He then crept his hand over towards Cobb’s in an attempt to intertwine their fingers in a warm hold. But this electric touch generated an unforeseen rush as the vapors surged through the lid, overflowing the blackened kettle.

“This is just like an insane asylum except that another patient is impersonating my doctor,” Cobb cried out unprovoked. “I just want to get out of this fucking place. I want to be sure of myself again.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Nash said, withdrawing his hand as if he’d touched a hot coil. “Where did this come from?”

All the anxieties foamed over—helter-skelter and non-sequitur—every droplet of negativity for himself. “I don’t even understand how in all those years I lived in Limbo, I never wizened up.” Cobb felt like he had regressed in age. Apart from his prison-induced weight loss, he had shrunk, eschewing adolescence, into a little boy swimming in a grown man’s clothes: pathetic and vulnerable like he’d always striven not to be. This is all he was, after all these years: a mockery of an adult.

“Calm down there, sweetheart. It’s because you don’t experience anything. You let things happen to you: you were poured into a mold and let people pound you like dough into their preferred shape. You were content traveling down that assembly line to the furnace,” Nash explained, unsure of how helpful he was at comforting his panicking companion.

“I see it all so clearly now. I fucked up plenty of times, but I didn’t learn shit. I won’t ever learn shit because people don’t change. It’s too late for me now to get off the train. We’re about to make impact.”

Nash opened his mouth to reply, but Cobb continued, “That’s another one of those myths they tell you as a child,” in a nasally imitation, “be good to people and they’ll be good to you,” Cobb made a desperate, sardonic sound midway between a laugh and a cry. “And you can change yourself for the better. Well _that_ ’ll be the day.”

“You won’t be able to change who you are, no, but the point now is to set aside all your insecurities and just accept it all. Accept that life is a load of bullshit, and that everyone is fucked up in some way. That’s the only way you can live with yourself. That’s the point I’m trying to get across.”

“They all knew I was deluded and depraved yet they all kept it a secret from me like some cultist conspiracy,” Cobb chugged steadily along in his maudlin rant, voice cracking with the shifting pitch. It was doubtful that he was even cognizant of Nash’s damage control responses. “I don’t like being some assholes’ inside joke, and I especially don’t like the fact that they’ll be making fun of my Sisyphean attempts at reconstructing my identity.”

“Look, stop being a drama queen,” Nash said, reaching into his meager reserves for the gumption to take Cobb firmly by the shoulders. “Not sure anyone but Arthur—and he’s a dick himself—understood the extent of your act, and even if they did, they would forgive you. That’s just what we fucking do, Dom. We fuck up, we forgive, and we live on,” Nash urged.

“I can’t do it anymore: the absolution is simply deception. I’m not a good person. You’re right. You’re all right. I’m terrible. I do terrible things. I fuck up worse than anyone I’ve ever accused,” Cobb said between hysterical shuddering sobs, reaching the point of no return. “I don’t even know how I ended up like this.”

“No, no, that’s not the point,” Nash urged, but Cobb broke away from his grip absolutely determined.

 _This can’t be reality. This can’t be what I’ve become. I had so much potential and... there won’t be another chance to redeem myself unless..._

A running start. The concrete slapping beneath his heels. The cold stone looming closer and closer.

 _Unless I can wake up._

Cobb slammed himself into the wall, feeling a sharp pain run down his arm from his shoulder and dashing open a gash at the corner of his forehead, the blood dripping down his face like sweat. He took a step backwards, hovering as if about to lose consciousness, but quickly regained his senses. He was just as alive as before, just as awake as before. _Still the same Dominick Cobb, still the same._

The only change was the influx of static noise from the outside world.

“Dude, someone call Guinness:  that must be a fuckin’ world record. Ten feet? Are you kidding me?”

“Naw, I got twelve feet yesterday. Haven’t drank as much today.”

“Can we do sum’nthin’ else please? This pissin’ contest’s ‘bout as childish as y’can git.”

“Oh shut up, Red, you’re just jealous because you have a weak flow.”

The prisoners’ jaws fell slack as they listened dumbfounded to the absurd communication. Cobb slammed the black button urgently, lest their own speech be heard. Despite the pulsing throb in his head, Cobb made eye contact with Nash—the two of them, lips quaking, struggling not to burst out laughing but failing epically in that matter.

He hadn’t woken up, no, but the bang-up was not completely useless. _You enjoy that,_ he snickered internally at his relentlessly biting alter ego. _There’ll be plenty more batterings to come for you._

Nash had since walked over to examine Cobb’s forehead, smoothing out the hair near his injury to get a better look. “Oh, you’ll be fine besides the losing-your-precious-few-brain-cells part. Good thing they don’t feed us in here, or we could really hurt ourselves. Or each other,” he grinned, patting Cobb on the shoulder and eliciting a hissing “ow.”

“So what’s with the melodrama?” Nash asked, leading Cobb to the bed, collapsing with him onto the lumpy surface. “I thought you’d gotten over your penchant for theatrics.”

“Ugh,” Cobb said, resting his splitting migraine of a head back against the wall and rubbing his eyes. “I want to say that I believed I could wake myself up from this nightmare. But the truth is I... I had to make the voice in my head shut up.”

Nash bit his lip, leaving a dent, to keep from expressing his appreciation for the comedic relief. “Right... the voice in your head.”

“It’s always telling me I'm wrong. And you know what, I think it's often correct. It gives me the truth, which is damn hard to swallow, always lathered with acrid contempt. And only ever the negative stuff. This voice is such a piece of work.”

“Oh _that_ voice. I was ready to rule you a full-blown nutcase. Well, let’s see, how best to explain it?” Nash creased his brow and tapped at his chin with his fingers, trying to come up with the right words. “That voice is your Mr. Charles. And there’s a Mr. Charles in all of us, a voice that reminds us how fallible we are. That we might as well be dreaming for all the difference our conscious life makes. It does its job, in a sort of way. No better trait in a head of security than to make you watch out for yourself; and it does so by instilling proper paranoia.”

Cobb raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “More like head of _in_ security.”

“Eh, close enough.”

“What’s more, how are you always able to understand where I’m coming from? Can you read my mind or is this speaking from personal experience?”

Nash responded with the most exasperated of glares. “Hello? We’re on the same wavelength, remember?”

“Oh please don’t ask me to _remember_ anything. Those muscles are sore right now,” Cobb groaned, feeling quite out of sorts.

Nash patted the back of his surprisingly cold hand hesitantly. Once he ascertained there was not to be another explosion, he laid his hand in the same spot, cupping the frigid fingers, one of them adorned with a white-gold wedding band. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you earlier, but you can understand how I felt. Anyway, it’s not just you, it’s everyone. It’s part of human nature, just one that no one will ever admit to. Like I said earlier, even Mal was guilty of selfish behavior. I mean, why do you think she kept you around even though she saw through your projected exterior? It wasn’t just you who was guilty of using the other. It was a mutual give and take. So you have nothing to be ashamed of. What happens happens. There’s another universal truth. Just take the trips and falls and roll with them, Dom, that’s all we can do in this rat race,” he mumbled, hoping to be more effective with his reassurances this time.

“What does it all matter anyway, showing me the ‘enlightened’ path? You’re perfectly aware that we’re both gonna die soon enough,” Cobb murmured, closing his eyes.

Nash narrowed his own. Why _did_ he bother? Would clarity of vision really make this recalcitrant case come round? “I suppose it doesn’t, Dom. I suppose I was—and still am—fucking stupid and just want to hear you say just once that you... y’know... that you gave a shit about me or something.”

There was an awkward pause. “I do though. Why the hell else would I have been torn up in the first place?”

“Do what?”

“Do... give a shit.” He had a strange way of proclaiming affection, that one.

“That’s not the impression I got in the helicopter that day. Or in the Saito dream itself. You had no intention of divulging the measly bits of information that could have saved my hide because you were too scared of ridicule and emasculation in front of your self-worth meter stick, Arthur. And I still have no guarantee that I’m not some temporary boytoy that you’ll push off a cliff so that you’ll have a cushion to land on.”

Cobb took several deep breaths. “Okay, fuck. I never told you this and I never wanted to tell you this but.... okay.” One long exhale that seemed to drain his lungs dry. “But... even... even in my dreams with Mal... You would appear. I don’t know what caused it. You would be in the background, barely visible in the crowd, but you would always show up. Mal knew this as well, but together we chose to ignore it.”

Nash was taken aback, his rant extinguished.

“But you became more and more of a recurring nuisance. Disturbingly so. To the point where I couldn’t just will away your existence because you were around every crumbling corner, reflected back in every pane of glass. The longer I stayed under, the less cooperative you were. That’s why I couldn’t let myself dream anymore: I had to actively fight your existence in my subconscious.”

“And what happened,” Nash sneered, barely able to stomach this unlikely tale, “when I showed up in Limbo?”

Cobb smiled blissfully, his eyes sealed. He then flipped his hand over below Nash’s, their fingers weaved together. “I built a grand library of the world’s greatest texts for you—as intricate and awe-inspiring as a Baroque cathedral; I stocked all the shelves, which wound around the center of the structure, full of manuscripts and leather-bound volumes. And I asked you to climb up, reading to the top, until I came back for you.”

“Did you ever come back?”

“No... because I wasn’t able to face you at that time… it was a hiding place of sorts. The most I could do was to have my archives show you what I never could. The last book at the very top, once you’d finished digesting all of history’s knowledge in those fifty years... it told you everything, the entire truth. You know what it said?”

“What?” An anticipatory squeeze.

“I love you.”

Nash let each of those three words sink in, unable to fight the crinkling of his eyes and widening of his grin. For once in his life, he had nothing left to say.


	6. Flesh and sinew

Apart from the bumpy start, Cobb decided that, perhaps, prison life weren’t so bad after all, copasetic even. Sure he was caged up in some rancid underground pit, but by now it was _his_ underground pit. Feeling like he belonged somewhere, anywhere, was comforting in a way, not to mention having the luxury of sharing Home Sweet Pit with the only person who accepted him in spite of himself. 

Plus the impending alternative, the unspoken finality that awaited the two of them... only served to make them cherish their dingy cell more and more with each waking day that passed.

The stomping of half a dozen pairs of steel-toed loafers and Oxfords with concealed vials of cyanide were heard in the hallway outside the prison. Cobb rolled out of bed where he’d been sitting next to a napping Nash, counting the cracks on the opposite wall. He stood tall, readying himself for what could very well have been either the final judgment or a routine toilet scrubbing, and smoothed out an especially uncooperative patch of blond hair, the side on which he’d been lying for the past few nights.   
  
The first through the door was, of course, Mr. Wilcox, his thin lips curled into a cruel smile. _Something was definitely up._ Then came Johnny, Red, and three more nameless guards, two of whom Cobb had never seen before. _High turnover rate_ , he nodded knowingly to himself. The mob assembled themselves in a semi-circle around the bunk, with Cobb in the dead center. Nash was still asleep, the blanket twisted around his body from the restless movement of his overactive subconscious.

“Yo, wake that lazy sewer rat up,” Johnny directed to Cobb, snapping his fingers impatiently.

With a heinously indignant expression on his face, Cobb complied, shaking Nash’s supine form by the shoulder, whispering to him, “It’s a trainwreck. Come watch the fireworks.” Nash’s eyes popped open from the injection his adrenaline reserves had just pumped into his veins; he scanned the panorama of the room, bewildered.

Wilcox matched the insolence dripping from Cobb’s face with an unsavory glare in Nash’s direction. “You. Up. Now.”

Nash scrambled quickly, trying to disentangle himself from the sheets and all but face-planted out of bed. He shot a helpless plea at Cobb who mouthed back that he was just as lost as to the purpose of this gathering.

“Okay. Now that we have that settled... You,” Wilcox commanded, pointing to Cobb, “over in that corner.”

Red marched over to Nash, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him into the opposite corner next to the toilet.

“So, ladies and gentlemen. We have quite a special treat for you here today. A show the likes of which have not been seen since the days of the Knights-Errant jousting for glory or the merciless gladiators of the Coliseum,” Wilcox began.

The prisoners’ eyes widened nervously, fear trickling unabated like tapeworms in their intestines.

“I must thank our new recruit, Eddie,” he waved towards the short but well-built guard with a scar over his right cheek down to the chin, “for this marvelous idea. We were in search of a method to stick a cork in extraneous drains on resources around here, you know how it goes, budget cuts and all. So what better way to marry the deletion of useless captives to efficient allocation of company dollars than a good old-fashioned slaughter?” he giggled sadistically. “You may do the honors, Eddie, my dear boy.”

The smug guard assumed his soapbox in the center of the room, pulling out a switchblade from his pocket and flicking the shiny metal knife out before setting it on the floor before him. Red lived up to his name as he stared with obvious envy but kept quiet as Eddie started, “You will fight to the death right here in this room, with your bare fists if you must. The knife is just a token of our appreciation, to help the process along should it be necessary. The winner will be allowed to walk out of Cobol Engineering with his life, and the loser... well, let’s just say the incinerator will be having a nice meal tonight.”

For a second, Cobb hesitated, giving thought to the proposition. If he just picked up the knife and ended it all... he could go back to his contained way of life, one that, although restrictive, was the only one he knew to play to his advantage. He thought about the crisp summer breeze lifting his spirits and the ability to walk the streets without fear again—without having to question himself with every stride. If somehow, by the grace of the Cobol guards getting shitfaced drunk and unwittingly acting upon their end of the bargain, resulting in his release, he wasn’t sure how people would react to the new Dominick Cobb or if he was strong enough to withstand the breakdown or at least questioning of all previous social ties.

All it would take was one calculated slash across Nash’s throat and none would be the wiser. The secret dies with its keeper. 

_ Only you know what the magnum opus of my library said... _

He took a step forward.

Nash gazed at him, hushed by the suffocating tension between the two. His eyes... they were the same as that day when he and Arthur were on the helicopter with Saito: they seemed to emit all of the sorrow of humanity since its inception. The eyes of someone filled with regret, waiting to die alone, the eyes of someone who’d seen far too much but lived far too little. And unlike before, he just couldn’t look away. 

_...And only you can ever validate its meaning. _

Besides, if people can welcome a murderer back into their circles, why not a homosexual?

“Fuck you,” Cobb growled pointedly at Johnny, spitting at his newly-polished shoes. As if acting on a reflex, the muscular guard angrily wound up and gave him a mean left hook to the side of his face. He fell to the ground, hitting the wall and slumping against it.

Nash screamed.

“So, are you willing to perform as asked, or shall we illustrate to you the full brunt of Cobol’s ahem... persuasive capacity?” Wilcox inquired, holding his hands in front of him and tapping the reciprocal fingertips against one another as if bored by the unsatisfactory level of carnage.

Cobb felt like his head was no longer screwed on straight, as if it were still whirring on an axis, loosened by the violent blow. He could barely see or think through the fog of pain. He spit again, this time in red.

Nash rushed forward, trying to get to Cobb’s side, but Red blocked his path. “Git back in the corner and stop scurryin’ ‘fore time’s called, ya sleazy rat.”

Wilcox cleared his throat passive-aggressively. Johnny bent down and lifted Cobb by the collar like a rag doll, pulling his hair back to expose his already puffy and purple face to his boss. “Answer him, or you and the rodent’ll both be turned into bacon.”

All Cobb did was smile wickedly, his blood staining his teeth. “Bon appétit.”

Johnny sprung forward and bashed Cobb’s skull with his own, their foreheads meeting in a nasty wham. He let his victim fall to the ground, kicking him towards the center of the huddle. “Boys, dig in.”

While lying half-conscious, Cobb turned ever so slightly towards Nash, the blurry image in the corner of his eye. _It really hurts_. He couldn’t tell if he was saying the words or if they were “telepathically” transmitted from his dizzied mind. _You may think I’m trying to be a martyr right now, but I’m really not. I feel pain just as much as the next person, and I hate it, I can’t stand it._

Eddie looked disappointed by the fact that his carefully formed recreational activity was tossed asunder in favor of an all-out massacre but quickly cheered up upon getting a few kicks in on Cobb’s chest. A couple of the others, including Red, closed in on Nash, ready to give him the hammering that they’d expected to see.

 _ But this is just physical pain. The pain of losing the only respect I deserve, the only worth I’ve ever merited... that would be far more devastating. So break me apart, Eddie, Johnny, whoever the fuck you bastards are. Let my guts spill out in the view of the one person who will say, “Well, there really was something decent inside you after all!”  _

All the while, the connected gaze never broke between Cobb and Nash. Even with their eyelids swollen shut, white hot flashes of pain lit up the darkness like bolts of lightning so that they could see.

***

The first sensation Cobb felt upon regaining consciousness, even before the pain kicked in, was wetness. He blinked his heavy eyelids, trying to focus, but all he saw was a dark splotch under his cheek, as his face was pressed up against the rough ground.

Struggling to distance himself just an inch so that his view would no longer be a blur, he then became cognizant of the dull ache beating through his body with every thwomp of the heart. _Why am I still alive?_ he complained, gritting his teeth. But as double vision cleared up, he realized he’d been lying on a small pool of blood for a pillow.

He heard something slithering towards him on all fours, a swear word accompanying every meticulous motion. Nash, too, had survived the ordeal.

“We’re lucky,” Nash hacked, his voice like razorblades. _Either someone got him right in the throat or I was simply too deaf to his screams thanks to the ringing in my ears._

Then the dizziness hit as he tried to lift himself up from the ground. Cobb promptly collapsed back on his stomach, a wave of nausea rushing over him. Dry-heaving, he was grateful that there was nothing in his system. “Ugh. Lucky not to be in a vegetative state, maybe.”

“Oh, you look like you should be, what with those nasty lacerations on your head. But yeah, both of us would have received frontal lobotomies by now if it weren’t for the fact that the lot of them were called upstairs to be briefed on some important meeting. I heard it on their walkie-talkies, but you were out by then.”

“How long have I been out?”

“I don’t know. Maybe half an hour.”

“I kinda wish they just went through with it and killed me, put me out of my misery,” Cobb lamented. Every breath felt like someone was shoving a bouquet of needles into his chest and sides.

“Oh, they will. The beefcake one promised an ‘awesome execution’ for us tomorrow. Those were his words. But I would have thought you’d wanted to go out with some grand speech, you know, like they do in the movies.”

“Well the thing is they aren’t regurgitating hemorrhaged blood clots on set...” Cobb spit towards the wall, his mouth raw, dry, and tasting like a combination of metal and hydrochloric acid.

“Same old bitter Dom. You’ve still got your wits about you,” Nash chuckled, coughing as he pulled himself up next to Cobb. “Good thing you got that thick, unbreakable skull of yours, or your whole head would be caved in by now.” 

They sat in silent agony for a bit, the entirety of their circumstances sinking in. Everything could be prefaced with “the last.” The last day. The last night. The last look. The last breath. Nash then flipped the switch to solemnity. “They’re gonna kill us tomorrow, you know.”

“I could have guessed as much.”

“I mean... I have faced the prospect of death many a time. But I never imagined it would be like this, executioner-style in the illegal prison cell of some corrupt mob-run corporation. And I want to say that the fact that we’re both in this together makes it alright or at least lessens the blow, but no, it actually doesn’t,” Nash sighed. “It doesn’t make a bit of a difference.”

“Well, I’m grateful for your company as well,” Cobb grumbled.

“Oh, you know what I mean though. It’s just fucking sad that we have no assurances whatsoever that all we’ve been working for and fighting for changed a thing in the long run, that anyone will remember us in a month,” Nash explained, dripping with sarcasm. “Nor is there anything to suggest that we’ll be reuniting on some other existential plane. Talk about a whirlwind affair: I for one enjoyed our _measly_ few weeks together.”

Cobb eyed him thoughtfully, sharing in the sentiment. _What I wouldn’t do to get access to a PASIV right now... so that I could relive those fifty years in Limbo_ without _the constant wondering, doubt, and denial. So that I could grow old with you right beside me._ “It was... it’s been fun.”

“Death probably thinks he’s real hilarious right about now. Yeah, you’re a real joker,” Nash huffed pointedly to the air around him. “I mean, at least when you die of old age, you have some kind of warning. Like hey, I’m a wrinkled old geezer now, maybe I should work on that bucket list. Us, though? We had no real forewarning, no opportunity to go and wrap up unfinished business.”

“Eh, the one thing I regret right now is not making a run for it when I had the chance. I mean they had the door open wide several times: this could all have been avoided. If I just dove out, I mean... at least I could say I’d _tried_ ,” Cobb said, rolling himself over onto his back. It was getting a bit hard to breathe, and he wondered about the state of his ribs. Broken or unbroken, they’d definitely gotten a few hard kicks in on him.

“Um, no. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to have done that. First of all, we’re in a sector of the building that you can’t get in or out of without a security access card. Second, you don’t wanna know what they do to you when, not if, they catch you,” Nash relayed with a pained expression.

“And you know this how?” Cobb asked, impressed. He knew Nash was book-smart in college, but he didn’t realize until lately how resourceful he could be and how eloquently he could speak when expounding on abstract concepts.

“The roommate I had before you was this scrawny drug dealer named Rian with an ‘i.’ I think he swindled one of the Cobol goons? Anyway I couldn’t understand a word he said: it was all in some hipster street lingo,” Nash related, licking his cracked lip. “But one time, Red came in to wash us off, and he just _went_ for it, blasted out of here as fast as his puny legs would take him. And this is coming from me: he was pretty wimpy.”

Cobb could barely suppress a laugh, but the pain helped him stifle it.

“Well, when they dragged him back in—naturally the guards at the ends of the sector caught him without any trouble—he was screaming for mercy like a five year old girl. They gave him an impressive beating, pulling out the belts with the heavy buckles and the steel-toed dress shoes, and, as if that weren’t enough, Johnny then ordered the guys to take him downstairs to The Rack. Yeah, apparently they have some kind of medieval torture device in the basement? Don’t ask me,” Nash swallowed, his already-thin voice wearing out further. “I just remember hearing the screams for days, even through this thick concrete flooring.”

“Goddamn, that’s sick.”

“It’s okay though. He was just being equalized,” Nash said with a shrug. He then winced and stopped midway due to the intense bruising on his upper back and shoulders. _Not a good idea_.

“Huh? What does that mean?” Cobb asked, perplexed.

Nash sighed, rolling his eyes. “You know, death? The great equalizer?”

“Yeah, yeah. But some methods of meeting one’s end are more equal than the others,” Cobb retorted.

“Well let’s hope that the way they choose for us to go is about as equal as equal can be,” Nash groaned, checking on his fractured toe from where it was stomped on and immediately drawing back from the aching touch. “I think I’ve had enough unequal treatment to last twenty lifetimes.”

What was it he’d said about waiting for a train? Well, now it was waiting for an execution, one that would take them far away, further away than any place imaginable. The sole question was whether they’d be together, wherever the dusk of eternal slumber took the two dreamers.

Nash tried to sit back on his elbows, searching through trial and error for a position that didn’t hurt. Finding such an endeavor futile, he then commenced to deciding the _least_ painful. He ended up on his stomach, glad that he’d been fortunate enough to escape without broken ribs. In fact, compared to how Cobb looked, he was relatively well-off. He’d just removed his nasal splint a few days earlier and was most thankful that they hadn’t shattered his fragile nose again. The two of them lay in silence: whether it was because they were deep in thought or too paralyzed by pain to speak, it was unclear.

“You know,” mused Cobb in a bittersweet tone after a time had passed, “I bet somewhere out there, maybe in a parallel universe, maybe in our past or future lives... we didn’t have all this shit happen to us. Didn’t fuck up so badly. Didn’t have all these misunderstandings and all this baggage come between us, and we’re actually together and... happy.”

“Did they drip acid into your food? Or do you have more than a concussion? Dream on,” Nash snorted. “No violence or emotional rollercoasters? It wouldn’t very well be us anymore, would it?”

“I guess you’re right,” Cobb nodded drowsily, conceding the point, “as usual. You only ever screw up the little things.”

“Details, details,” Nash dashed off the notion with a wave of his hand. “Once we’re gone, they’ll only remember the big picture, if they remember us at all. Details will fade... you know, like a pair of jeans you put in the wash too many times.”

“You make the strangest comparisons.”

“I gotta get it through your dense, albeit probably cracked, skull, don’t I? _Have_ to use some colorful language to accomplish that,” Nash smiled.

Cobb closed his eyes. It’s quite something. To even contemplate grasping the finality of no longer being. A definite end. The top starts trembling and spiraling and then _thud_ : it rolls to a halt just like that. So you stop wondering, you stop thinking; you just lose yourself in that spinning motion called existing.

***

 _ When we’re gone, when we’re ashes, taken back into the universal womb that spawned us, do you think there we’ll be together again? When we’re reborn or recast into two neighboring stars, do you think we’ll retain specks of memory, like stardust, the only residue left from our existence, and remember, perhaps, what used to be? _

They appeared in a small cozy cottage. The walls were coated in faded, patterned wallpaper, and the furniture was quaint and rustic, almost antique. Here their bodies were whole again and the pain had dissipated for the most part, only faint tingling and stinging trickling in from their physical selves.

 _ One last night. _

“Where are we?” Cobb asked, looking around the darkened room, the floorboard creaking under his foot as he shifted his weight.

“Back where we started from,” Nash said, taking in his surroundings in a different way.

“What do you mean by that?”

“This is my childhood home.”

“Seems like your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

Nash nodded slowly and said, “And it seems like I have no choice but to cooperate. Plus I was raised Catholic, so I might as well go back to my roots as I blip back into nonexistence. You can be my confessional of sorts.”

“What _haven’t_ you shared with me these last few weeks?” Cobb asked curiously.

“You wanted to know the reason we were on the same wavelength, didn’t you? Or did you never bother to ponder why?”

“I’d assumed that, like me, you felt guilty, but it was because you survived the accident that took your parents.”

Nash grimaced. “Yeah... _accident_.”

Cobb’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean to say you killed your parents?”

“Thanks a lot,” Nash sneered.

“What?”

“For asking me if I did.”

“Well isn’t the truth what we’re driving at here?”

“That’s the thing. I never stayed to find out the truth.”

“I don’t want to spend my last night jabbering while you run circles around me.” Cobb crossed his arms over his chest with a serious expression.

Nash swallowed hard. “Alright, to be fair, in... in a way I did kill them.” Cobb kept on staring at him unflinchingly. “And I’m just as haunted by that specter of Guilt as you were with Mal. I went through all of the same steps. It’s just that I’ve had longer to deal with it, to try to come terms with the fact that the history of my life is nothing more than one fucking thing after another.”

Cobb listened closely, digesting his explanation and shaking his head. “I don’t believe you though. That isn’t the kind of person you are.”

“And what kind of person am I then? Since you think you know me so well.”

“You’re... you’re smart, witty, practical. And you’re a damn good architect.”

“One more time, without the sugarcoating please.”

“Okay, you’re also selfish. You’re obnoxious. You’re mean. But you’re not evil,” Cobb said, with the strange sensation of role reversal. _Wait, haven’t we gone over this before?_

“How well do you really think you know me?”

“How well can two people ever know each other?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m coming clean right now. I still long, as stubborn as it is, for that mythical, idealistic concept called true understanding. I guess I believed that if it were possible with anyone, it would be with you.”

“Because of that ‘connection’ you think we have?”

“Maybe.”

“So what actually happened? From your point of view. Let me be the judge.”

A defeated exhale. “If you insist.”

All of the light in the room was suddenly extinguished, except for an image projected onto the wall, texture grainy like an old silent film. It was the little boy from the subway, but he was squatting in this very room, playing with a roly-poly he’d found outside, endlessly amused at watching the bug flop over onto its back and curl up into a ball when he poked at it with a stick. 

“I used to do that too,” Cobb whispered, able to locate Nash by the light reflected in his eyes.

A knock on the door. The boy jumped up and ran to the door, opening it to a shady character in a black fedora and overcoat.

“That’s Uncle Giorgio,” Nash began to narrate in a hushed voice. “He’s one of my dad’s friends from work.”

“Work? Seems more like the mob to me,” Cobb interjected.

“You gotta make a living somehow,” Nash replied morosely. “At least you can see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The man started to ask the boy questions, his lips moving insistently, but the boy did not seem to procure the desired information.

“Dad wanted to move away, to start our lives anew in France, where Mom had grown up. So he told me that we were going to sneak off one night, without leaving a trace.”

“Big mistake,” Cobb said, covering his cheek with his hand.

Giorgio resorted to desperate measures. He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of sweets, fresh from the nearby candy shop.

“Now that’s just cruel,” Cobb remarked.

But it was effective. The boy started to chatter as he sucked on a strawberry Berlingot, tucking it into his cheek as he, no doubt, rattled off the details of their impending move. 

The screen faded to black as the scene changed.

“The night before our projected date, I was sleeping upstairs when I heard a loud, shattering noise down below. In my pajamas, I rushed down the stairs, peeking over the rail. Shots had been fired through the windows, and everything was broken. Including my dad.”

The boy ran through the field of glass in his slippers to his father, who was lying on the floor, blood soaking through his undershirt and robe as he breathed short, harsh breaths with great difficulty. He was paralyzed, uncertain of what to do.

That’s when a slender woman with dark curly hair, presumably his mother, ducked out from behind the cabinet in the kitchen where she was hiding, her hands placed protectively over her head like a helmet as she ran to her son.

“She told me she would take care of him. She told me I should run, take the back door out and run for my life. ‘Never look back,’ she said. What could I do besides listen to her instructions? I was a child with no will of my own.”

The boy stood, letting go of his father, but the blood had already soaked onto his clothes. He looked a dreary sight. The woman motioned him to go, and he did. He turned and made for the back door, only turning his head back once.

“I said I would come back for them. I promised it.”

The door closed behind him. And there was nothing.

“But you know what? I’m a liar too. I wouldn’t come back for them. I ran that entire night and never stopped. I didn’t know where I’d been or where I was headed, but my sole preoccupation was getting away from those people. Those people that made scarlet fountains gush from a man’s body. All I cared about was it not being me who was next in line.”

“But it’s perfectly understandable, Nash. I mean, you were only eight. No one’s noble at that age,” Cobb urged, trying to fill Nash’s shoes as guide but finding his feet blistered by the rough edges.

“But even afterwards, as an adult, I’ve never been brave enough to return to find out what happened the rest of that night. It was the one collision I couldn’t open my eyes to. I couldn’t watch. And now I’ll never know whether they were taken or whether they, by some miracle, survived. Instead it’s a part of me now, this guilty uncertainty, and it’ll go with me to my grave. It’s no wonder bad luck stuck to me wherever I went: I’m a walking disaster.”

As the lights came back on, as dim as they were, Cobb took Nash by the hand, pulling him close for an impassioned embrace. 

_ We can never forgive ourselves for the things we’ve done because our memories are imprinted in our dreams. Malicious deeds we could explain away with the absolutist notion of evil, but flawed choices, what justification do we have for those? They’ll never leave us alone because we can never rationalize those particular actions.  _ _ But how about this? I’ll forgive you if you can forgive me.  _

_ Let’s pretend that our stories happened to someone else, that we may make our choice among the gamut of possible universes out there. And we choose the one where we always made the right decisions, did the right things. Let’s play pretend, as I used to do, and you must have done. If only so that we fall away from this world with a clear conscience.  _

“But I love you, you fucking disaster.”

***

When they awoke the next sleep cycle, after their final bout of cathartic karmic renewal, Cobb felt like he was being crushed, paralyzed, and suffocated. _Ugh, what’s going on?_ Craning his neck with great difficulty, he saw Nash sprawled over his chest, making it even harder to breathe than it already was, what with his extensive bruising.

“Hey,” he hissed, nudging Nash’s shoulder. “Get off me.”

Nash slid off and onto the floor, the movement jarring him awake. He mumbled something incoherent and rubbed his eyes vigorously, probably a mistake considering the unsanitary state of his hands.

“Sorry, I just didn’t want to spend my last moments being flattened,” Cobb said with a groan. “Today’s the day.”

Nash yawned tiredly as he replied, “You know, it’s incredible how it feels just like any other day. Our deaths are nothing special in the grand scheme of things.”

“I hate to agree, but you’re right.” Swept away in some dustpan like the memories he used to discard, Cobb wondered where the countless pieces of himself would end up as they were absorbed back into the Earth.

“I hope that incinerator’s on at full blast. I mean I wouldn’t want to suffer before being reduced to ashes.”

“I’m sure they take good care of their precious evidence locker,” Cobb reassured him.

As if on cue, the footsteps at the door indicated their imminent demise. Johnny, the deadly head of security, entered, dressed uncharacteristically in a formal black suit and tie and escorted by yet another new guard. New? Not quite. This one seemed quite familiar to Cobb. Full lips, stubbly face, eternally mischievous expression...

 _ Eames _ ?!

 _ Shhh _ , he mouthed to Cobb with a wink, following Johnny into the room. For once, Cobb was thankful for his wounds because, if not for them, he might have had a readable expression on his face.

“We had our fun last night as you can see,” he gestured to the beaten bodies before them, “but since you’re the new guy, you get the boring task of snuffing them out,” he yawned exaggeratedly. “Do with them what you will, just make sure they’re deader than dead after the meeting upstairs. Eddie and I’ll haul them off to the incinerator before we clock out.”

Eames nodded nonchalantly, pulling out a matchbox from his back pocket and chewing on the end of a matchstick. _No toothpick today_ , Cobb pondered. _We must really be playing with fire._

“Right-o, boss,” Eames replied as Johnny brofisted him and the two of them barreled out the door. 

Cobb stared after the odd couple, flabbergasted.

“The hell was that?” Nash asked. “You seem to have recognized that guy.”

“He’s an old friend of mine...” Cobb replied.

“Well, why’s he working for them?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

A faint glimmer of hope on the horizon... or was it? Cobb felt his heart race with anticipation but didn’t want to raise his expectations too much, only to be let down with a visit to the basement...

Minutes later the new guard returned, his motions more meticulous and gait less thuggish. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Eames remarked, “Not in the best shape are we now, Cobb?”

“What are you doing here, Eames?”

“Saving your ass,” he forced a snide smile. “Did you _really_ suspect otherwise?”

“I mean, how did you even get in here? Cobol has all these levels of access; it’s impossible to cheat their system-”

Eames shook his head, clicking his tongue, “Once again you underestimate my ability to conjure whatever credentials I need out of thin air. ...Alright, not thin air, but an industrial printer and professional handwriting forgery skills are close enough. Either way, your implied condescension, kind sir, is much appreciated.”

Cobb trained his eyes on Eames, still puzzled. This was an international criminal organization intermixed with several mob families, rather than a legitimate corporation like Fischer-Morrow. They knew to watch their underlings diligently, and it typically took a matter of years of monitored behavior before the chain of command would hand the access key to the prisoners’ sector over to an employee. The team had to have pulled every string ever made and then some to get Eames in here.

“Wait, before we get ready to go, I need an assessment of the situation, in case something comes up.”

“It’s a long story,” Eames chuckled, rolling his eyes. _Same old bossy, patronizing Cobb_. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“I’m sure I’m sure,” Cobb replied.


	7. Miles below expectations

_ Since the surprise dismantlement of the Fischer-Morrow energy conglomerate, the business world has been frantically reinvesting, hoping that their impromptu research efforts pay off in locating the next superpower in terms of global corporations.  _

_ We have with us here today the Chief Executive Officer of the Japanese corporation, Proclus Global. PG has experienced tremendous growth in the past few years with the election of controlling shareholder, Mr. Saito, to the board of directors. What are your predictions for the next quarter, sir?  _

_ I believe that potential investors should take a leap of faith and flock to Proclus Global. We are the heir to the newly vacant throne that Maurice Fischer, may he rest in peace, has left to the remaining bastions of the international business circles. The quarter will terminate in our dominance as we bring a new age of much-needed leadership upon the world.  _

Arthur flicked off the blaring television with his remote. Despite the volume he’d only been half-listening anyway: the news had been broadcasting nonstop on the future of the corporate world ever since Robert Fischer’s fateful press conference. He chuckled as he remembered the live telecast: the colors that Peter Browning’s face took on... Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised if EMTs were waiting just off-camera to load him onto a stretcher for resuscitation. 

Plus his thoughts had wandered off to more distant realms. Ever since they’d arrived safely back in California, he’d returned to his bachelor pad—which had laid fallow during his absence—to resume a normal life. If that were still possible. He’d always had the option of stability and, strictly speaking, legal employment thanks to his invaluable work for the government. But instead he’d tagged along behind his old friend like the most loyal of canines, willing to tread on the burning embers of Hell if that were where he should choose to go. Loyalty, in his view and from his upbringing, was one of the hallmark virtues of being a worthwhile person. But it was a conflicted issue for him: while he looked upon betrayal with disgust, such as in the case of the damn architect Cobb hired against his better judgment, Arthur knew that he had been guilty of such infractions in the past... 

_ Non, je ne regrette rien _ , he told himself firmly, as if repeating it would make it true. The past was the past, and, as Cobb no longer required his aid, he was now finally free from obligation. He’d spoken to a few chums with whom he’d worked on the Dreamsharing simulation program, and they’d promised him a job as a military intelligence researcher or alternatively a recruiter as soon as one of these positions opened up. So, in the meantime, there wasn’t much on his agenda besides waiting for the call.   
  
The call that never came.

He respected the fact that his childhood friend, Cobb, had been through a traumatic series of events and needed plenty of recuperation time with the children. _I understand that fully, Dom, but you know it’s been too long since I’ve seen the kids... I’m not sure how long I can stand it._ Calling him, however, was out of the question.

He wanted to go out dancing and catching up with old friends, visit museums and attend concerts, take some figure drawing classes and hit the local coffee shop, and of course, his favorite, the karaoke bar... But as he’d had to get a new cell phone, the only number Cobb knew was his landline, he lamented. Thus he was stuck at home, yearning for the chimes of the ring tone.

He glanced at the illuminated clock hanging above the kitchen table. It was evening, so Ariadne should be home from her internship at a prestigious architectural firm by now. Cobb had promised to put in a good word for her: work that was not strictly speaking legal morphed into unquestionably legal work in the blink of an eye thanks to this insider reference. He had call waiting, so he didn’t think taking a few minutes to check up on Ariadne’s side of the story would do any harm. _Just make sure you keep it strictly professional._

 _ Ring, ring, ring _ , the dial tone repeated monotonously. “Hello?”

“Hello, Ariadne. This is Arthur. How are you doing?”

“Oh, hey Arthur! Nice to hear from you again.” Her smile was visible even from the other end of the line. “I’m doing very well. How about you?”

“I’m okay. Your internship going okay?”  
  
“Yeah, the architects are all really helpful, and my mentor especially is the sweetest lady you’ll ever meet. I’m learning tons everyday.”

“Glad they’re treating you well,” Arthur said, relieved to be through with the nagging formalities of small talk. “Listen, I had another question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard from Cobb lately?”

“No, why? What’s happened?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.”

“Oh. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with him too. I was really worried about him during the job, you know, and I wanted to find out how he’s recovering.”

“Agreed, same here.” _Although I must admit I’m significantly more interested in the kids’ welfare._

“Listen, you know his address right?”  
  
“Yep.”

“Well, umm, since tomorrow is Saturday and all, how about we go over and check on him, just to see if he needs anything?” _Us? Together?_

“I-I guess we can do that.” _At least it won’t have been my idea to barge in uninvited._

“And if he doesn’t want us there then whatever. We can just leave.”

“Sounds like a plan. You’re in those apartments we found for you, right?”

“Yeah, I’m renting a cozy little studio.”

“Okay, I’ll drop by and pick you up tomorrow around noon.” _Don’t get the wrong idea, though, Ariadne, I let it slip once, but I’m really not the right man for you. You deserve better._

“I’ll be out front. See you then.”

Arthur lay back, resting his head against the back of his leather couch. _Hopefully it won’t be too awkward, and Dom’ll believe that it was Ariadne’s suggestion, not just an underhanded excuse to see my kids._

***

Ariadne took extra care in getting ready the next morning. She was anything but high maintenance: a t-shirt and jeans—along with a cardigan if the weather was chilly—suited her just fine. But, although she’d never admit to the fact, ever since the dream training and that one sneaky kiss, she’d been having trouble keeping Arthur off her mind. _It’s alright_ , she said to herself. _Just let it fade away._ And it was all going according to plan, her internship taking up most of her time, until that phone call.

She’d almost kicked herself for asking him to go to Cobb’s house together, as if he could see it was a ploy to be able to see him again. But to just let him hang up like that with such an opportunity in front of their faces, she couldn’t let it all go to waste. _Hopefully Cobb will be there, so it won’t be so awkward._

It was a bit windy outside, so she decided to wear her prettiest scarf on top of her usual ensemble of a long cotton top and boyfriend jeans. It was a light blue Hermes and made of soft silk: her mother had sent it to her for her last birthday. She smoothed on some tinted lip balm, slung her messenger bag over her shoulder, and was on her way.

Arthur, always punctual, was already waiting in the parking lot, his face visible from the driver’s side window of his sleek black sedan. Upon approaching the car, however, she noticed something about him looked off, as if he hadn’t slept much if at all. “Hey.”

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did you have a rough night?” she pondered, climbing in and plopping onto the seat next to him. Arthur was dressed in a starched button-down shirt in cream, a red-and-blue striped tie, and tan slacks. The stereo was hooked up to his iPod, which was playing Bach’s Cello Suites.

“Oh,” he laughed weakly. “I was just up late watching TV, you know how that goes.”

She nodded, not willing to push the subject any further. “So have you even spoken to him at all since the Fischer job?”

“Nope.”

She hesitated. “That seems a little strange.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

“Hm. I guess you could say that. We’ve known each other for the longest time.”

“You don’t share much in the way of... I don’t know... emotional issues, do you?”

“That’s not what guys talk about with their friends.”

“Oh, what _do_ they talk about then, if guys are really such creatures apart from us girls,” Ariadne replied, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not saying it’s a good thing,” Arthur smiled. “Bottling things up like a lot of us do. But we do show our support through other means, such as actions, more so than open discussion.”

“I guess I could see that,” Ariadne shrugged, not entirely convinced. “I wasn’t sure if you were aware, though, of the issues Cobb was having.”

“Ariadne. I’m not blind. I knew perfectly well what was happening with him.”

She sent him an outraged look. “And you didn’t stop him? He was way too unstable to risk participation in that job.”

“He was my commander, and I owed him a duty. And that duty was to respect his judgment.”

“Even when he’s wrong?”

“That’s not my place to judge.”

His crisp black-and-white philosophical lines certainly did extend to his pristine, proper way of dress. Never was there a thread hanging loose or a scuffed shoe with Arthur. Sometimes she longed to be able to believe in absolutes, like he seemed to, as it made muddying through the grey areas a moot endeavor. To avoid further broadening the gap between them, Ariadne shrewdly chose to change the subject to happenings at her firm, about which she chattered until they reached their destination.

The house was single-story with a sprawled, wide layout and a large backyard. From the driveway Ariadne could see hints of color through the fence, indicating a children’s playscape. There was a small plot laid out for a flower garden in the front yard, but it hadn’t been tended to in a long time as evidenced by the shriveled plants, and the bushes lining the brick walls were in desperate need of a trim. Several large trees shaded the walkway to the front door.

“What do we do if he’s not home?” Ariadne asked. There was no other car in the driveway, and the garage door was closed.

“I guess we can leave a note or something, saying you came by and were interested in how he was doing,” Arthur suggested. _But I won’t sign it._

Ariadne nodded and rang the doorbell. They waited, the seconds ticking by. Then she knocked on the door a couple of times. The window curtain next to the door rustled and then a click as the door was unlatched.

When the door opened, the two of them were stunned.

“Oh, hello, Professor Miles,” Ariadne exclaimed, automatically blushing. “I forgot that you were going to be here.”

“Memory is a fickle thing,” he replied, eyes scooting back and forth from one to the other like a pendulum. She couldn’t tell if the momentary wrinkling of his nose was a grimace or due instead to the shadow puppets of the tree branches above the doorstep.

“Um, may we come in?” Arthur asked, all the while flitting his eyes to try to ascertain what lurked in the depths of the house. 

“Of course,” Miles said, opening the door all the way. “How rude of me. Please do come in.”

As they walked into the entrance area, a wall mirror to their right and an end table wearing a hat of fresh tulips to the left, the guests heard a sliding door open and the excited shrieks of a child grow louder and louder.

“Uncle Arthur! Uncle Arthur!” James came running, eyes lit up in glee at the sight of his favorite “relative.” He did, after all, give the best Christmas presents. Arthur took the boy into his arms for a bear hug and ruffled his hair with a beaming smile.

“Uncle Arthur, you should see what we made,” he said, beckoning to the backyard where his older sister, Phillipa, was encircled by a palette of finger paints and several swaths of construction paper.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said to the other adults, though lacking the barest hint of remorse, “but if you’ll excuse me.”

 _ No, don’t leave me, Arthur.  _ Ariadne tried not to visibly squirm as she was faced with small talk with her widely-respected professor after minutes ago barging into his summer home where he was spending time with his grandchildren. _Yeah, smooth move, Ariadne._

“You’re enjoying your summer work, I assume?” Miles questioned as he started for the study, which was just a few feet down the hall. The hardwood floors changed into carpet as they entered the room which earned its name with its deep viridian-colored walls and cherrywood bookshelves lined with volume after volume of encyclopedias, erudite treatises, and prominent works of literature.

“Ridiculously so,” she said, preoccupied with taking in the antique charm of her surroundings. “I still have to thank you for writing that recommendation letter.”

“Anything for one of my best and brightest,” he said, waving for her to step fully inside. He leaned a hand on the desk near the window, which was covered by long damask drapes. There were several piles of papers sitting atop the surface of the desk along with a small metal case. “Are you taking one of your upper level seminars with me next year?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied with genuine dismay. “The one I wanted was full, so I am in the Eco-friendly Architecture class with Dr. Cooper.”

“Ah, Dr. Cooper. You will not be disappointed,” he smiled. That same knowing smile he adopted every time she visited his office hours. She wondered what was behind those unblinking eyes.

“I would definitely love to discuss History of Architecture with you though, some time. But I’m afraid Arthur and I came here today for a different reason,” she asked, in a spontaneous burst of bravery.

“And what would that be?” He studied her carefully, without revealing anything on his part.

“We were wondering how Cobb was doing. But it looks like he’s out. It’s okay though, really. We can come back later,” Ariadne said hurriedly, excusing her presumptive prying.

“Don’t worry,” Miles said, face still unchanged but something darker in his mood. He began to tinker with the small case, flipping the fasteners and opening it up. She couldn’t get a good view of the inside but imagined it contained a PASIV. “The threat has been eliminated.”

“Wh-what are you talking about?”

“You’re smart enough to have figured it out,” he said, fidgeting with something in the case. It wasn’t visible from her angle. “I volunteered your services because I assumed you would have realized my intentions.”

“I... I apologize, Professor Miles, but I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

He laughed. “Did Dominick Cobb’s wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing disguise fool you as well?”

She was speechless.

Miles started stepping forward, inch by inch, a look of determination on his face. He was holding a small clear object in his hand, but she was still unable to make out the details. _What is he doing_? she asked herself fervently. _And what should I do?_

“It was plain to see that I meant for you to sabotage his ill-fated mission. But what did you do instead? You single handedly salvaged that sunken ship and dragged it back to shore.” 

She stepped back, closer to the bookcase, fearful of his intentions.

“And now you come here, asking too many questions. I offered you a way out. You could have forgotten all of this even happened. But no, now you’re saddled with the burden, the burden of knowing too much,” he continued, cornering her against the wall of books. His deep wrinkles were more apparent from close-up as was the emotion in his face, now that his shell was cracked. It spelled out grief.

“My daughter was like you. A sweet, innocent girl with so much potential. She could have gone anywhere, done anything. But then she was tainted, violated, and spoiled by that treacherous knave, your friend, Cobb. She was meant for so much more. Just like you.”

Ariadne’s pupils were dilated like a mouse about to be snatched up by a hawk. She could hardly think, hardly breathe, yet she managed to mumble, “It wasn’t his fault. He-he loved her.”

“And yet she’s gone now. A whole lot of good his purported ‘love’ did for her. She went on a trip to slumber land, and the gates closed behind her.” His hot breath tickled her eyebrows as he spoke, inches from her face.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. She wanted to run. But something about being trapped rendered her immobile. _Mom. Dad. Arthur... I had so much to say to you._

“Now let me put you to sleep. You won’t even feel a thing,” he said, brandishing the syringe in his grip and lifting it up towards Ariadne’s neck. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Say hello to Mal for me.”

“Tell her yourself,” Arthur’s voice said from the doorway, a split second before a blast issued from his Glock.

Bang.

A barrage of bullets pounded a clip through Miles’ skull, ripping through the bone like butter. The metal ricocheted through the insides, fragments shredding the contents like a blender and exiting in messy shards, the majority of which through his other temple.

She saw red. She was red. Everything was red.

Miles’ body, now with only the barest semblance of a head, crumpled to the ground, first falling to its knees as if in prayer and then lurching forward to slam against the ground with a deep thud. It moved no more.

She was drenched in mortality.

Every emotion that she’d ever felt coursed through her veins, mounting up to release through her lungs.

She. Had. To. Scream.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Arthur said, his hand over Ariadne’s mouth to muffle the bellows. He let her bite his hand, waiting for the screams to die down. “Look, I will deal with the kids. You go on down the hall and get yourself cleaned off and changed. Mal’s clothes are still in the walk-in closet of the master bedroom.”

She stared at him in utter shock, tears dripping from her eyes, the words meaning nothing to her.

“Dammit, Ariadne, this is no time for crying. Save it for later and let’s get out of here, preferably without dragging the kids through this fucking mess,” Arthur remonstrated, gesturing at the pool of blood soaking into the carpet and the pieces of Miles splotched onto the books of the study like some zombie Jackson Pollack art experiment.

Ariadne nodded as if in a trance. _Do it,_ she said to herself, _do what Arthur says. Trust him to get you out of here and away from this and pretend this never happened oh god please I wish I had never decided to come today._ But she took a deep breath and waddled out of the room, disturbed by the notion of having to peek around corners for the unknown.

As she left, Arthur made sure his appearance was decent enough to face the kids. Finding a bloodstain on his shirt from holding Ariadne, he retrieved a jacket of Cobb’s from the rack in the hallway, picked up his briefcase from the entrance area, and returned to get to work.

First he patted down Miles’ body, searching his pocket for any incriminating evidence. He pulled out his wallet and cell phone, both of which would serve their purpose, he was sure. Then Arthur quickly opened all the drawers—including one with a particularly stubborn lock—and thumbed through the files within. Most of them didn’t pertain to Miles whatsoever: birth records for the children, car rentals, deeds. Next he sifted through the documents on the desk. Aha. These were more recent bills and letters addressed to Miles himself. He gathered them neatly into a stack and eased the load into his case.

Then Arthur spotted Miles’ PASIV case out of the corner of his eye. It had an empty compartment for the syringe that was accounted for but also something sitting in the crevice of the black velvet, glimmering as the light caught it. Upon picking it up, Arthur realized it was Mal’s totem. _Like a boomerang_ , Arthur gave a half-smile and let it drop into the inner pocket of his jacket, looking around to make sure he wasn’t seen.

When Ariadne returned, face still pale and eyes still dilated, Arthur was in the middle of cleaning off his fingerprints from the gun and placing it into Miles’ hand, making sure that his fingertips touched all over the metal handle. Although still obviously tormented, washing his blood-soaked remains from her body did seem to cleanse her internally as well. She was now dressed in Mal’s capris—which due to her height fit her like pants—and a dress shirt, holding her soaked clothing on one arm, including the once-lovely scarf.

“The... the syringe,” Ariadne pointed to the tiny translucent object next to the potted plant. Arthur smiled, picking it up carefully and folding it up within a handkerchief to dispose of later. He nodded thankfully at Ariadne for her insight. _Perhaps she’s made of tougher stuff than she looks_ , he chuckled.

“How... how did you know?”

“I already had a suspicion about the old man, so I asked Phillipa, ‘When was the last time you saw Daddy?’ When she said she hadn’t for a few days, and Grandpa Miles said he wasn’t ever coming back... well, the answer was glaringly obvious,” Arthur explained.

“Th-thank you for saving my life,” Ariadne said with sincerity.

“It was nothing. But we have to get out of here. I’ll round up the kids, and here,” he handed her the keys, “get in the car, and let’s scoot.”


	8. Kissing a frog

  
He’d dropped her off at her apartment after an eerily silent car ride. The kids, tired from play, were falling asleep in the backseat, but Arthur and Ariadne couldn’t risk broaching the subject of the day’s shocking events in their presence. 

A couple of minutes after she’d gone through the gate, however, Arthur got a call on his cell phone. He slowed and parked along the curb of a neighborhood street to answer it.

“Arthur.” It was Ariadne.

“What’s wrong?” He didn’t really have to ask.

“I-I can’t be alone. I can’t deal with this myself. I’m gathering my things. Can you please come pick me up?”

 _ But she was still a human being after all. _ “No problem, I didn’t make it very far anyway.”

He made a u-turn and headed back. She was waiting out front with a small duffel bag of essentials, haphazardly stuffed into it in an obvious rush. The look on her face screamed, “Help me.” And if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought her to be a runaway, alone for the first time and utterly lost in the limitless expanses of the world.

She managed a quiet “thank you” as she opened the door and took shotgun. And then silence, once again, prevailed.

Once back at his complex, Arthur carried Phillipa and his briefcase and Ariadne carried James up the stairwell to his place as the two were soundly asleep. Taking the lightest of steps, they reached the bedroom, pulled back the covers, and tucked them in simultaneously, one on either side of the king-sized bed.

Shutting the door behind them, Arthur whispered to Ariadne, “As far as sleeping arrangements go, you can have the couch, I’ll sleep on the floor.” He then strode over to the storage closet next to his humble kitchen and scrounged for the sleeping bag he used to use for camping.

She forced a smile and laid her bag next to the sofa. Watching his always-precise movements as he pulled out the rolled up bundle from under some folding chairs and spread it out perpendicular to the couch, she sat down shakily.

Turning around as he finished, he said, “I guess I could have waited until after dinner. Speaking of which, what would you like to eat tonight?”

Ariadne darted her eyes away from his gaze and downward, embarrassed about having followed his every movement. However, she had to fight back a wave of nausea as she realized there was a skull fragment, glued on with dried brain matter, stuck to her shoe. The initial shock had ended, however, and now the tears of realization began, muffled sobs as she pulled the collar of Mal’s shirt up to cover her face.

“Oh shit. You’re probably not in the mood for food, are you?” Arthur said, lambasting himself and joining her on the couch. He rubbed her gently on the back, trying his best to comfort someone having her first-time encounter with death. “There, there, just let it all out. You’ll feel better soon. Hell, tomorrow it’ll all be forgotten.”

“I never want to see another needle in my life,” she cried, the words only discernible from context. “How... how do you deal with it? The trauma?”

“I’ve learned not to think of it that way. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I accept that I’m just doing my duty, protecting the innocent. There’s nothing more to it.”

“You’ve killed someone before this?” she sniffled. “Outside of a dream?”

“Yeah... but you do what you have to do. It’s a matter of honor, not backing down from adversity. There are evil people out there, and the only way to keep them in check is for some of us to step up and say, ‘I’ve had enough.’ And we sacrifice ourselves rather than indulging in crunchy pacifism to do what has to be done. All so that the good can live in peace,” Arthur explained in a slow, soft voice, as if reading a bedtime story to a child. He shifted closer to put his arm around her for a sideways hug.

His words of reassurance weren’t the most orthodox, but Ariadne found herself calming down quicker than she expected, considering the tumultuous day she’d experienced. Something about his touch was relaxing, as if he had gone through these same motions before in the past. Either that or he was a natural empath. _I can’t lie... I don’t ever want to break this hold._

“Speaking of innocent people... Miles,” she nearly choked on having to mention his name, “said that Cobb was dead... I can’t believe it. We should have visited sooner to make sure he was all right...”

 _ Cobb? Innocent?  _ If not for the delicacy of the situation, Arthur would have snickered. “I wouldn’t take his word for it. The kids didn’t say anything on that point, but, knowing Miles, he’d be more likely to keep Cobb alive and tortured than to kill him right away. Like a cat with its food.”

“He was the last one to see Cobb though. We hardly have much else to go on.”

“Never underestimate your point man,” Arthur replied with a smile. “I have documents galore _plus_ a cell phone. We’ll be able to find out anything and everything that Miles was up to.”

She looked up into Arthur’s face—her tear-streaked cheeks in full view—the first time since she’d avoided eye contact. He really did amaze her with his competence and resourcefulness: everything he’d done since she’d known him was meticulous, calculated, and sharp like the end of a pin. She craved someone like that in her life to keep her steady and grounded. _Today could have been the last day of your life. Today should have been the last day of your life._

If there was one thing death could do for the greater good, it was to displace shyness.

“Quick, give me a kiss,” she said, wholly willing and wholly pliable. _I don’t want to have to wonder if there will be a tomorrow. Today is all that matters._

Arthur, of course, did as he was told. _She needs your support now, Arthur. Worry about the consequences afterwards._

This kiss was longer, fuller, more passionate than the peck from the Fischer job, and in it, Arthur felt some of the same feelings he’d harbored for Mal arising unexpectedly. Their first kiss had also come at an inappropriate moment.

***

“Happy birthday, honey,” Cobb said as he embraced his wife, sweeping away a strand of hair that had fallen across her face to perch it behind an ear ornamented with his present, sparkling diamond earrings. She beamed at the two men, brighter still than even the gems could hope to be.

She was wearing a gorgeous long red dress, with a bow on the hip where a slit originated, giving coy flashes of her stocking-clad legs. Her hair was done up elegantly as the couple had just returned from their favorite French restaurant downtown when Arthur had dropped by for an impromptu celebration.

“Now how about I get us some champagne to celebrate?” Cobb suggested, rising from the living room sofa where the three of them were sitting. He too was dressed handsomely in formal wear.

“Oh, yes. Please do,” Mal exclaimed. “The glasses are in the cabinet in the dining room.”

Cobb tipped his head and hurriedly exited the room to retrieve the refreshments.

 _ Well, might as well keep going with the presents.  _ “Happy birthday, Mal,” Arthur said, smiling and handing her a neatly wrapped package of metallic blue tinsel.

She thanked him sweetly and started unwrapping carefully, making sure not to tear the paper. Mal gasped. Within the clear plastic box was a shiny silver top.

“You remembered what I told you?” she remarked, awed by his attentiveness. “But it was so long ago, and it was just a random comment-”

“Everything you say is important though, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” Arthur smiled. _Must have had some terrible ex-boyfriends._ “When you said your most memorable present as a child was a top that would spin for ages, I decided that I’d have to give you another fond—but less distant—memory to look back on.”

That’s when she set the top down on the coffee table and, with a ferocity he’d previously only glimpsed in her fiery eyes, swiveled her upper body toward Arthur, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a deep open-mouthed kiss, as if she’d finally broken free from the reins of self-restraint.

Keeping one hand at the cusp of his neck, she lowered her other to the hem of his pants, where she slipped her fingers in to grip at its contents. Arthur nearly jumped at the surprising touch but remained stunned, blushing from his heightened heart rate.

 _ The hell is she doing? Cobb could come back in at any minute. This is wrong. This is all wrong. _ And the worst part was his inability to protest. Despite how much he tried to fight these insidious thoughts, they always crept back through the cracks of his mind. _I thought I sealed it up. With concepts like “honor” and “loyalty” and “discipline” I created a sacred temple in there, interdicted to any impurity. So why am I making out with my best friend’s wife?_

He started responding to her desperate, hungry motions, sinking into the kiss and placing his trembling hands on her hip, feeling the sliver of netted hosiery under the pads of his fingers. She’d obviously been wanting this for a long time, and Arthur, being Arthur, could never say no.

Her movements on his lower half became more vigorous, and even his doubts disappeared, leaving only the image of her in his mind. Their kissing became more intense, heads bobbing with the entanglement of tongues, lips grasping as if to engulf the other pair. But then, as footsteps were heard in the hallway, Mal removed herself completely from his contact, leaving Arthur with only a throbbing discomfort in his trousers. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve in case of any stray lipstick marks as Cobb walked back in, holding a bottle in the crook of his elbow and three glasses in his hands.

“Mal, baby, you are so forgetful,” he grinned. “The glasses were in a box in the garage. We hadn’t removed them since we moved, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Mal laughed. She sent a wink at Arthur as Cobb set to cork the champagne bottle and pour their drinks. He could hardly breathe, shifting awkwardly in place. _This is not going to do._

“Excuse me,” Arthur said, standing abruptly and turning away from his hosts. “I must use the restroom.”

He had to relieve himself, that was certain. He felt positively dirty, contemptuous, a worthless traitor at best. But as he took himself to release, sitting with his pants down on the ledge of the tub in the guest restroom, the guilt was pushed away in favor of thinking about Mal’s lips, her hands all over him, and her sex-starved _urgency_ ; he wondered what any of it meant.

***

And here Ariadne was, naive and still blossoming into her own person, getting tangled up in a web, the confounded complexities of which she could never divine. He withdrew, conscience bearing too heavily upon him.

“What’s wrong?” Ariadne asked, her hand flying up to her mouth, horrified at his reaction. _Was I too forward?_

“It’s not you... I was just reminded of Mal,” Arthur said. _No, don’t tear up again, please. I couldn’t forgive myself. ...Fuck it, I can’t forgive myself either way._

“Why... why would that remind you of Mal?” she prodded, perplexed.

He stared at her silently but meaningfully. 

_ She was lovely... Lovely.  _ The words came back to her gradually.

She blinked, realization dawning on her. “Shit.”

“Yeah. _Shit_ ,” he agreed. “And I know what you’re thinking: world’s worst friend, world’s biggest hypocrite, yadda yadda. Well, you may be right. I just had to get this all out in the open before you decided to invest any more time and energy in me.”

“Oh, Arthur... That isn’t what I’m thinking,” she fibbed. “I’m just.. wow.” _Really, I’m torn. I thought you to be the one person above reproach. Yet the fact that you’re willing to share something with me and not bottling it up like you always have... That means so much more to me than some petty judgment._

“Why do you think I hadn’t called you since the job finished? We obviously had chemistry, and let me admit to you right now, I wanted to see you again. But fuck if I’m going to drag you down into my own personal quicksand,” Arthur said, determined. He didn’t want to scare her to death, but it was only fair to give forewarning. His voice became increasingly erratic as he went on. “And since I called you, look what’s happened. You’ve had some dude’s head explode all over you and now you want to kiss a frog. Let me tell you, I’m not going to be a prince. I’m going to be some grieving ball of nerves holding steadfast to my broken principles—a walking contradiction—with more baggage than a two-story cross-Atlantic fucking Boeing jet.”

She hadn’t imagined him like this before: unraveling. Sure, everyone had their moments, but the put-together, steel pillar of an Arthur she was just fawning over... even _he_ would crumple under the force of gravity with enough strain and enough time.

“I-I can’t imagine what you went through, holding yourself _and_ Cobb up through the aftermath...”

Arthur chuckled morosely. “Every time she was mentioned during the Inception job it was like ripping open an old wound that had just scarred over. Every time she showed up as a projection of Cobb’s... that was salt on the wound. You thought I was uptight, that I was cold and emotionless? Well it was the only thing I could do to keep from breaking down entirely,” he said. Then his face darkened with shame. “Thinking about her was what kept me inattentive enough to overlook the fact that Fischer was militarized.”

“No one is blaming you, Arthur. No one even remembers that anymore,” Ariadne murmured. “All that matters is that we’re safe now. ...Ex-except for Cobb. But whatever happened to him, we’ll find him and bring him back; don’t feel bad.”

“We’d better. I owe him my life and several more, you know?”

“Hm?”

“His dad saved my dad’s life when they were fighting in the war together. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even exist. Plus he’d been a constant in my life whenever I was going through rough times,” Arthur said, although not without a bit of understated ambivalence.

“I want you to know that I’m here for you, to listen whenever necessary,” she said, inner strength restored by her natural instinct to dote on and protect anyone in need. “We haven’t known each other for a long time, no, but I feel like we’ve been through enough life-changing events to know how the other operates.”

Arthur nodded reluctantly. “Are you sure you still want to stick around me? Despite my moral failings? I mean, I could go on the hunt for Cobb myself, if you wanted to cut contact-”

“I’m sure,” she smiled. _As for your reasoning for committing what seems to be adultery... I may inquire later. But for now, I’m just relieved to find out that you’re human as well._

***

The kids woke up disoriented, which was understandable since they’d never been to Arthur’s apartment previously; it’d always been Arthur paying the visits to the Cobbs’. James shed a few cranky tears, but they quickly cleared upon learning that they’d be having spaghetti with meatballs for dinner.

“And you’ll be staying with Uncle Arthur now, is that okay?”

“Yay!” they cheered. “Can we stay up past our bedtimes?”

He could do no more than laugh and nod.

The interactions between Arthur and Ariadne had also reverted to the platonic friendship they’d had before, both of them feeling they should at least sleep on the thought of any sort of change and that there were other, higher priorities awaiting in the meantime.

“I’ll check the cell phone,” Ariadne said. Arthur obligingly picked up a stack of papers and starting scanning through its contents. They had moved the research materials to the bedroom for the time being as Phillipa and James were now playing with the Wii, intermittent bursts of giggles or disappointed groans emanating from the TV area.

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Arthur’s search did not seem fruitful. He first went through the most mundane of bills: water, gas, electric, cable, etcetera. The only feature that perked his interest was the fact that they were addressed to Miles at Cobb’s address, meaning that he _had_ planned for a permanent takeover of the house, changing the owner’s name at various utility companies. Next came a printed email to a lawyer from Miles, asking about changing custody for children when their parents were dead, missing, or incarcerated. _Interesting_. He put it on the left, bookmarking it for later scrutiny.

“Hey,” Ariadne mentioned, breaking his daze of concentration. “Does this name sound familiar?”

“What name?” Arthur said, hoping it wasn’t another wild goose chase. 

“Vincent E. Cobol.”

“Wait, hand me that,” Arthur exclaimed, crawling up to Ariadne to get a better view of the screen. There were an array of text messages and voicemails from the man named Cobol, whom, of course, Arthur knew to be the head of the murderous corporate front, Cobol Engineering. What was Miles doing contacting him?

Ariadne opened the first text message on the list and latest chronologically: _Had great dinner with you at Hubert’s Buffet. Next week?_

“They’re _friends_?” Arthur nearly blew a gasket. “How long ago do these messages date back?”

“Um, from what I can see, since a few months ago at least,” Ariadne replied scrolling down through the history.

“Open the next one,” Arthur said, still in disbelief.

 _ You will have to speak to my man, Mitch Wilcox, directly. _

“The hell does that mean?” Arthur furrowed his brows. Ariadne could do nothing but shrug in response.

The next few messages also had to do with dinner and golfing plans, unrelated to Cobb’s disappearance but signifying that Miles had long since had a strong bond with the corporate figurehead.

“How about we try listening to the voicemails?” Ariadne suggested. “Maybe he discusses more in there.”

And she was right.

 _ Hello, my dear Miles. I hope that my underlings provided you with appropriate accommodations during your visit to our headquarters. If any displeased you, let me know and I will have them dealt with. Once again I regret not being present as I had to have surgery performed on that date. Until next time. _

“Why would he visit the Cobol building if his friend wasn’t there?” Arthur asked rhetorically. They looked at each other. _Are you thinking what I’m thinking?_

“Either he’s doing some kind of other business with the corporation... or they have Cobb,” Ariadne said.

“I should have guessed Cobol had a hand in this,” Arthur replied broodingly. “The fact that they offered Cobb a way out as soon as the warrant was put out for his arrest, that was fishy enough. But then they seemed to have a lot of private information on the both of us, which they wouldn’t have had access to unless someone talked.”

“So Miles had it out for Cobb all along?” Ariadne gasped. “And he got his friend from Cobol to do his dirty work?”

“Now that I look back on it, it seems reasonable. I mean... completely fucking psycho but still reasonable. Mal was his only child, and he’d always been overprotective of her. And let’s just say that, even before her passing, the fact that he didn’t like Cobb was an understatement.”

“But Mal loved him, right?”

Arthur grit his teeth and tensed his muscles for a second, an inadvertent twitch. “She did.”

Ariadne could see that whatever it was that haunted him had never been confronted or resolved. He refused to open the closet door or to look under the bed to confirm that there was no monster lurking within; instead he let the mere possibility gobble him up. A shade of uncertainty over his mind. 

“Do you... do you blame him as well?” she whispered, immediately regretting her question.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” he sighed. “Contrary to how he must have explained it to you, there were a lot of factors involved leading up to what happened. ...But you know what? I did. I hated him initially for what happened to her even though I never let my anger show. But I also hated myself for it, too. It never would have gotten to that point without my influence.”

“What was that?”

“She had always been a dreamer. Brilliant but kinda kooky. Believed her life was a fairy tale where she'd find a prince and live happily ever after. But things, of course, are never that simple,” he said, staring at the blue striped wallpaper in front of him. “When we started our... affair, they only got worse.”

Ariadne nodded, feigning understanding. She knew he’d have trouble communicating in a coherent fashion the multitude of colliding concepts bouncing through his head, but she was proud of him for even trying... for trusting her enough to speak from his heart.

“I was sucked into it too, that radical notion. I liked hanging out with the couple. I mean it was my best friend that I hadn’t seen for years, thanks to his schooling versus my military obligations, plus the welcome addition of his very... attractive wife,” he bit his lip in embarrassment. “At first they made me cherish my strong ties to reality. It was like they were floating on clouds all day, and I never savored the feel of the cold, hard ground under my feet more than I did back then. But then of course I got pulled in, or up I should say, somewhat as well.”

Ariadne could sympathize. _Building cities in your mind all day, how could your head not be in the clouds?_ Ever since experiencing dreamshare, she, too, had been slipping into daydreams more often, craving the lucid control, mental processing power, and pure creative inspiration offered by the PASIV. Her chess piece lay forlorn in the bottom of her messenger bag, as if waiting for her to again ascend into that Shangri-la of imagination.

“I encouraged her to think of me as her prince. That I, and I alone, could bring her true love and pure happiness. I even... I even asked her to leave Cobb for me, so that it’d be just us and our kids,” Arthur admitted shamefully. “It was like we were playing a psychological tug-of-war with her in the middle.”

“Wait. Your kids...?”

Arthur pursed his lips and exhaled. Another meaningful look.

“Oh, oh my gosh.” It was like her world was getting turned upside and folded on top of itself every five minutes. _You should probably stop asking questions, Ariadne. Curiosity almost cost you your life after all._

Just then James tapped on the door and walked in pouting.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Ariadne said, concerned, turning to face the boy.

“Phillipa cheated! She took an extra turn when I wasn’t looking.”

“No, I didn’t!” she shouted from the living room.

 _ Kids will be kids.  _ Arthur smiled, his woes tucked neatly back into his pocket, and stood up, taking James by the hand and heading over to his sister to resolve the dispute.

Alone with her thoughts finally, she mulled over what her discoveries signified. _Arthur was definitely still troubled by everything and still deeply in love with Mal._ She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy, for which she berated herself soundly. But considering the profound grief and unobtainable love that he carried with each step like massive boulders, did Arthur still have the wherewithal to forgive and to care for anyone else? For Cobb? ...For her?

When he returned, having obviously pondered their situation in the midst of comforting the children, Arthur stated, answering her doubts once and for all, “Cobol Engineering is one of the most high-security organizations in the world due to its extensive illegal operations. Which means...”

“What?”

He seemed exasperated at himself for having to come to such a conclusion, but, to accomplish the task at hand, there was no other choice. “We’ll need someone who can expertly forge documents and credentials, disguise himself as an employee, and obtain confidential information. Does this description ring a bell?”

 _ Ah, the sweet scent of rivalry.  _ Ariadne smiled. “I know just the man for the job.”


	9. When in Mombassa

Eames was sleeping when he got the call. Rolling over in the bed to tap the snooze button on the alarm, he was confused by the continued ringing. _Oh right, the phone._

Although he yearned to retrace his steps back to the action in his dream, Eames decided it could be a worthwhile call: employment had been unsteady since the Fischer job, and he had to admit: most of his erstwhile earnings had already been “donated” in the form of poker chips to the local casino.

“Hello?” he greeted the receiver groggily. The telephone was, thankfully, just on the other side of his radio slash alarm clock.

“Hey Eames, this is Ariadne. How are you doing?” a perky voice rang in his ear. _Far too early for this much enthusiasm,_ he wanted to reply.

“S’pose I’m doing all right. Same old, same old. And yourself?” The boredom he felt was magnified in his voice.

“I am well, thank you. But I can’t say the same for Cobb.” 

“Cobb, eh? What’s the matter with him? Still requires the attention of a psychiatrist, does he?”

“I’m afraid it’s more than that. You see, Arthur and I suspect that he’s been kidnapped by Cobol Engineering.”

“They’ve been tailing him for quite some time, yes. Frankly, I’m surprised the incompetent rascals took this long in capturing him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, nothing, do go on.”

“Well, we need your help. There isn’t a safe way to approach this, and the only feasible method either of us can think of to infiltrate Cobol headquarters is through counterfeit documents and undercover work, your areas of expertise. Please consider this plea, we can’t do this ourselves.”

“Hm, was this an independent assessment or does our friend, Arthur, also admit he’s incapable of doing an entire mission alone? Come on, now, I want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Ariadne’s voice became muffled as she put her hand over the phone to speak to Arthur. _I can see the bugger scowling and squirming in his suspenders_ , Eames snorted.

“Forget it,” Arthur said as he took the phone. Ariadne’s disagreement was clearly audible from the background. 

A dollop of derision never hurt anyone. “Good day to you as well, Arthur. You shan’t be needing Eamesy’s aid then? Too big for your britches, is that right?”

“I swear I am going to punch you in the face through the phone line if you don’t wipe that smirk off of it,” Arthur threatened.

Eames made an exaggerated yawning sound. “I gladly await such an invention. It would make my job so much easier.”

A long, drawn-out sigh issued from Arthur’s side. “Okay, how about this. You do it for Cobb’s sake and forget I’m even involved. I’ll mostly be on the sidelines anyway.” Ariadne had been doing her part in tranquilizing him.

“Sounds tempting. But what’s really in it for me, apart from the vainglorious concept of rescuing a damsel in distress?”

“If he’s even being held in the Cobol compound, I doubt you could succeed anyway.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah, this might be a job too risky even for the likes of you.” _Dammit. He may be an uppity little wretch, but he sure knows how to push_ just _the right buttons._

“There are no failed missions when Eames is involved, you know this perfectly well from experience.”

“Heh, this may just be the one to take the cake. You are familiar with Cobol’s practices, I’m sure. They hire ex-hitmen, ex-cons, anyone and everyone who is willing to commit the most indecent acts of treachery and with the utmost bloodshed. Those are the scumbags we’re dealing with. And then that’s only the bottom rung of the ladder. The upper levels authorize wholesale massacres and genocide-”

“Exactly the reason they’re here in Kenya.”

“So yeah, you get the picture. Not the most friendly bunch. And as the inside agent, if something goes wrong, you’ll probably need to do some unsavory things to get your ass out alive.”

A highly dangerous operation with an infinitesimal projected rate of success? Operating solo against a ragtag band of killers who’d slice off a man’s head at the flip of a penny? Just the mental stimulation he needed to get himself back into tip-top shape. Eames was more than in. 

“You may just have convinced me, Arthur. But I do have one condition.”

“What is it?” he asked suspiciously.

“I feel inspired. And naturally this means that a plan is forming already in the fertile soil of my mind.”

 _ Manure, more like _ , Arthur sneered.

“I sense the need for a delicate extraction to adequately complete this mission and therefore require the aid of a... chemist. You know, to prepare a properly potent sedative on the unruly subject.” 

“Done. Whatever it takes to get Cobb out of there.”

“Except compromising your swollen sense of dignity?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Eames.”

“Cheers.” He hung up and laid his head back down on his pillow. There was a lot of planning to be done for such a sensitive operation, but Eames already had an idea of where to start.

 _ But for now, where were we? An abandoned alley. On their team: twenty faceless goons, armed to the teeth and on the prowl. On my side: one standard-issue grenade and my bare, bare hands. _ He closed his eyes and grinned in satisfaction. _I pity their odds._

 _ Yes, back to dreamland we go. _

***

If you asked anyone who knew Yusuf what he was like, they would invariably reply that he smiled the biggest smiles. He was a well-known prankster, in fact that was the reason he decided to study chemistry: more explosions were _always_ better in his view. He also loved a good joke, popping into conversations with the cleverest of punch lines, ready to contribute a witty word at the end of the day, however dreary it was. 

If you actually knew Yusuf, knew him the way his cat, Maggie (short for Magnesium), did, you would find that it was true what they said. But there was a side that no one save the lone feline ever saw, that he didn’t allow anyone to approach. The fact of the matter is that he smiled the biggest smiles, yes, but he also cried the saltiest tears.

His bowl was untouched. It sat on the fold-up table next to the bed, growing colder every minute. This was the first thing Yusuf noticed as he entered the tiny room on the north corner of his shop’s basement. The second was the skeletal figure lying beneath the covers, every joint angular and clearly visible under an overlay of veins and skin that lacked the vibrancy of health. One might call it a prison, but if you asked Yusuf, he would have preferred the term “rehabilitation facility.”

“Please, you must eat,” Yusuf urged, picking it up and offering a spoonful of porridge to the sickly man’s colorless lips. “You haven’t swallowed a morsel in days...”

He turned away defiantly, rejecting his old friend’s goodwill.

“We have to get over this.” _I have to get you over this_. “So you can be yourself again...”

“Why does it matter as long as I’m happy?” his hoarse voice whispered weakly. “Just let me dream again.”

“It’s not real.”

“And your dreaming den, that’s real? You... don’t seem to have any moral qualms when turning a profit is the primary concern.”

“They’re old and decrepit. They just want to return to the virility of their youth, Musa. Can’t you understand that?”

“Some people age faster than others, as far as the mind goes.” He began to plead, as he always did during Yusuf’s check-ins. “May I please return? I can’t... can’t stand this life when I know there’s another more beautiful universe out there...”

 _ What happened to you? You used to be so young, so alive. You used to sing and dance as if the world could tumble down around you and the rhythm of your melody would never be interrupted. _

Yusuf’s eyes teared up at the remembrance: the day he’d concocted his newest substance. 

_ I happened. _

_ “The cure for sadness,” he’d proudly announced. “And I want you to have the honor of testing it, Musa. A lasting sedative with the added bonus of providing only positive dreams, so that your mind may become a utopia in and of itself.” _

At the start, he’d welcomed his friend’s more frequent visits. Business was booming at the little chemistry shop at the end of the corridor, and Yusuf believed this was a testament to the genius of his creation. But then a darker side soon revealed itself. Patrons began to go under for longer periods of time, hours and hours, and refusing to leave at closing time: they became obstinate, rowdy, a primal hunger was visible in their widened, mindless eyes.

There would be side-effects, gradual but unmistakable... addiction, psychosis, torment, and finally the client would wither away, for nothing else could provide the joy that this potion had bestowed. Reality became all but optional.

He posted a sign out front: _Closed Indefinitely_. And luckily the majority of the addicted weren’t in deep enough to have suffered the later stages of the drug’s effects... Except Musa, who’d been the guinea pig. Musa who’d been using since day one.

If only a cure would come as easily. He worked for hours late into the night to find a proper antidote, but what could rid the mind of its addiction to a simulated, perfect form of happiness?

Yusuf set the food back on the table, taking his friend’s hand within his palms. His wrist was lined with numerous scars from overuse of the PASIV. “Being here with me, though, doesn’t that make you happy?”

But this he wouldn’t... couldn’t answer.

***

As soon as Eames stepped through the doorway of his shop, Yusuf knew what his intentions were.

“The answer is no,” he greeted pointedly.

“G’day to you too,” Eames grinned. _Never make the mistake of underestimating this fellow_. “May I ask that you reconsider my unspoken proposition?”

“I would love to help with whatever it is, but I’m afraid I simply don’t have the time,” Yusuf admitted, somewhat apologetic. His cat strolled over to Eames and yawned lazily, her tail twirling in curiosity as she encircled the visitor.

“It’ll be a lot of fun, I promise you,” Eames said. “And we won’t make you drive a van this time, though I cannot guarantee we won’t be shot at.”

Yusuf laughed. It was odd that such a strangely phrased invitation served only to pique his interest. Ever since the Fischer job, his own dreams had been filled with adventure and excitement, the type hard to replicate in reality without transacting with some shady characters, like, for example, the Cobol henchmen skirting the area. But he owed it to Musa to stay put this time. After all, the old man who swept the floors couldn’t restrain his withdrawal-induced hallucinations, and he’d almost relapsed during his previous absence during the Fischer job. Musa had broken open Yusuf’s private coffers out of desperation and, in the process, destroyed some of his possible candidates for antidotes along the way.

He needed to keep Musa off of the substance entirely, in hopes that that could eventually cure him if his lab work proved futile. Against his ethical considerations, he’d reopened shop awhile back, selling a lower dosage form of the sedative to the elderly visitors and limiting the sale only to those who were physically-impaired or terminally ill, ones whose bodies had given way to the test of time, ones who could truly benefit from the ideal world of dreams. Hopefully, he sighed, this restriction would lighten the load on his conscience. 

The proceeds from the watered-down sedative and two shares from the last job with Eames had allowed him to fund replacements for the lost vials, plus make advancements due to the purchase of better equipment. Yusuf felt like he was getting closer to a breakthrough everyday. He couldn’t take another two weeks off.

Eames had since picked Maggie up from the ground, stroking her in his arms. Her enthusiastic purring could be heard even from Yusuf’s position behind the desk. “She’s always liked you,” he said, with an appreciative smile.

“What’s not to like?” he winked. “You know Maggie’s always been the best people reader; you should probably take a page out of her book and give me a chance.”

“Oh, you’ve had your chances, Mr. Eames,” he replied, smile yet widening and leaning forward with his arms against the glass countertop. “Plus it’s not you. It’s the shop, really. I’ve been thinking about expanding, so it’s going to require a lot of work.”

“A boutique of that size,” Eames pondered facetiously, “I’d say it would need a night watchman to operate safely. You know how _dangerous_ this world is becoming.”

“And you know very well that I sleep downstairs,” Yusuf snickered. “And I’m a shallow sleeper. I’d hear the crackling of a lozenge wrapper a floor away.”

“How ironic. Wouldn’t that be what your nighty-night potions are for,” Eames smirked, scratching the feline behind her ears. “Or is it that you chemists don’t abuse what you peddle?”

That hit a sore spot. But Yusuf couldn’t let on, holding firm by flashing the biggest of his big smiles. “We’re not drug dealers: we’re _apothecaries_. Don’t they teach semantics back in England anymore?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Eames stepped closer, allowing Maggie to climb onto the desk. This she did not particularly enjoy as she couldn’t get any traction on the sheets of paper littering the surface. “Desertion from Her Majesty’s royal service makes my British passport about as useful as a flipbook.”

Yusuf chuckled along with him although he was a bit surprised: this was news to him. “Speaking of the jolly history of British imperialism, I believe it’s about time for tea,” he turned around to look through the jars of tea leaves in the cupboard behind him. “Which flavor would you like?”

“Mm, Earl Grey for me, please.”

“All right, Earl Grey it is for the desperate dandy in the daisy-yellow paisley.” He started up the tea-maker, watching the hot water drip into the pitcher.

“Semantics again, my dear Yusuf. What you call desperation is, to me, simply a way of life. Survival above all else, after all.” Eames took a seat in front of the desk, his arms crossed in amusement. It wasn’t often that someone commented on his style of dress: it was, despite the mockery, quite flattering actually, that someone even noticed.

“And so you’re saying that my presence at this new job is vital to your survival?” Yusuf joked. _Although it is a good feeling indeed to be needed for whatever purpose_ , he thought, recalling Musa’s repeated denial with anguish.

“Quite literally, yes,” Eames said matter-of-factly. He then continued, gesturing toward the cabinets stocked full of vial after beaker after tube on the left wall. “Don’t even try to downplay your usefulness, Yusuf. It’s not very convincing.”

“If you think flattery will get you anywhere,” Yusuf grinned, removing the heated pitcher full of dark liquid from its holder and pouring the contents into two teacups, “you may be right.” _If there was one thing Eames was—besides thoroughly suave—it was persuasive._

“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it,” Eames licked his lips as the fragrant odor of tea filled the room. “How do you think toadies and brownnosers get so far in life? People love getting their boots licked clean by some sniveling bastard with no self-respect. But making people feel powerful, heh, that only increases the power you have over them.”

“Are you propositioning my boots?” Yusuf asked, wiggling his toes within his sandals. “Because, let me tell you, you are barking up the wrong tree. Mine are in storage somewhere behind the VCR and the snow shovel.”

“Oh, Yusuf, Yusuf,” Eames shook his head. “Do you have something weighing on your mind, darling? Because you’re certainly grasping a little today.”

He didn’t respond, instead setting the saucer down in front of Eames, keeping one cup next to himself. They both took small sips, blowing the steam away from their faces as they drank.

He _had_ just bought a new, more secure lock for Musa’s room down there. So his friend wasn’t going anywhere this time. And the man wasn’t in real danger due to the IV Yusuf would hook him up to, pretending it was a dosage of the drug and instead providing him a placebo of nutrients. Any discoveries he was meant to make in his chemistry lab, he would eventually make anyway... 

_ Screw justifications, dammit. I just really want to get out there again and kick some ass _ , he admitted, recalling the incredible stunt he’d pulled when flipping the van over. _Maybe this time someone will notice. Maybe this time I’ll have more than a supporting role._

“Perhaps I do need another vacation,” Yusuf said. “Now that I think of it.”

“Mm,” Eames nodded approvingly, smacking his lips. “Now you know why they say I have a silver tongue.”

***

It seemed like just yesterday that they’d arrived at LAX from Sydney. Again the vibrant commercialism of an American, no, scratch that, _Californian_ airport assaulted their senses with piercing LED lights and catchy jingles and overpriced souvenirs with slogans drawn out of a hat. A smorgasbord of sensory inundation. Yep, they were back.

Eames had filled Yusuf in on the details of the operation in the meantime, as well as those of his own undercover mission. This only made the chemist more inclined to join up as he had long harbored a burning contempt for the havoc that the corporate mob was wreaking in his native country. Eames first did some initial fieldwork, masquerading as a Cobol agent stationed in Mombassa for a couple of days, a far easier task than doing so at headquarters due to the decentralized corporate control in Kenya. This allowed him to learn some vital intel as to protocol, information that they’d be scrutinizing with a magnifying glass at their main compound.

Yusuf elected to keep his little store running during his absence, instead of taking a hiatus, because the elderly patrons had grown to depend on him so. He instructed the little old man as to dosage for their sedative as well as an IV with a more neutral sleeping aid to help Musa get some of the rest he’d been craving, albeit not in the world where he thought he belonged. He’d said a teary goodbye to his slumbering friend, anxious as always about leaving him halfway across the globe, but, of course, only Maggie was there to witness the falling of the salty droplets, darkening the sheets like polka-dots.

They’d both put their lives on hold again, this time, if all went as planned, to save the life of their former team leader.

Greeting the weary travelers at the baggage claim terminal were their old colleagues, Arthur and Ariadne. Ariadne was overjoyed to see the two, hugging each with a wide grin on her face. Arthur merely nodded at them, standing awkwardly to the side until Eames walked up and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Good to see you again, old boy,” Eames teased with a one-sided smile. “Why the cold shoulder?” Arthur rigidified like a board at the unwanted touch. 

“Ah, still under the regime of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ I presume,” Eames chuckled.

“I’m going to have you on the floor in three seconds if you don’t lay off right now, sleazeball,” Arthur snarled.

“This sort of comment doesn’t help your case.”

“Um, Arthur. Why don’t you go pick up the car from the parking garage, so we don’t have to carry all this around?” Ariadne suggested, trying to break up the long-time rivals. He obligingly headed out to retrieve and drive it to the loading zone out front for their convenience, shooting one last nasty look in Eames’ direction before parting.

“Actually, we may need a taxi,” Eames declared. “Do you by any chance know where the nearest hotel is?”

Ariadne had a more economical solution. “No, no. You guys can stay at my place. It’s pretty small, but there’s a twin-sized bed and an inflatable mattress.”

“Are you sure about that? I mean where would you sleep?” Yusuf inquired, not wanting to intrude.

“Um... about that, I’m staying with Arthur right now,” she answered sheepishly.

Eames and Yusuf exchanged knowing looks. “Ah...”

“Oh, no. It’s not like that, you guys!” she protested, her hands up in defense. But the damage was already done.   



	10. The kick

The room was dimly lit, but he could discern her silhouette clearly against the backdrop of a curtained window. Mal was sitting on the bed and her back was facing him. She was mute and solemn, characteristics that had never previously described her. 

Arthur walked in, careful not to disturb the heavy blanket of silence wrapped over the room like plastic wrap. One crinkle and he’d be discovered.

“Hello, Arthur,” she said, not even turning her head.

He froze. Caught. “Mal, chérie. Is anything wrong?”

“Everything is as it should be.” Where was the passion they were used to? She normally lunged at him with kisses, refusing to let go until the very last moment—when Cobb’s footsteps would be heard down the hall—the two of them wrapped together so tightly it was impossible to extricate one from the other.

“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m glad I got to see you today... it’s been awhile. I’ve missed you, baby...” He was met with no visible response.

“I’ve been keeping busy.” As cold as the icicle dripping from a winter branch.

He searched his mind for possible explanations. She could be moody at times, it was true, depending on the state of the often-strained relationship with her husband. But typically any marital strife was cured with the magic eraser of the PASIV. “Dreaming with... Dom again?” He wasn’t sure what took place in those sessions but was always appreciative of the resulting smile on her face.

“No, no. It’s over between us. He won’t listen to a word I say.”

“Huh? You decided to leave him after all?”

“Yes. I will be leaving him.” Arthur felt a jolt to his heart. _Oh, can it be true?_

“...And you.” _What?_ “But I’ll see you both on the other side.” He was spurred into motion, making his way to her and joining her on the bed. But still Mal stared steadfastly ahead without even a glance of acknowledgement in his direction.

“What are you talking about, Mal? Where are you going?” There was something very _wrong_ about this whole situation. He could feel the chill in his bones, pulling his leather jacket tighter around himself. How was she not freezing, sitting there unmoving in her sleeveless nightgown?

“Back where I came from. Back where I belong.” _Homesick for Paris, maybe?_

“Honey, what about Las Vegas? We were going to take a vacation there this summer; I already have the plane tickets and the reservation at the Excalibur.” _Can she even hear me?_ “I thought you would have wanted to live in a castle, if only for a few nights.”

“I don’t regret our time together, Arthur. You helped me come to a realization.” _No, I guess she can’t_.

“Speak some sense, Mal. I have no idea what you’re on about.” He tried to put an arm around her, finding her skin icy to the touch. She finally reacted, shrugging him away firmly.

“Things will be fine. I will be with my children and my husband. My real husband. And I will no longer need to hide under the guise of lies.”

She’s always been a dreamer, an idealist, sort of off-kilter. But this...? This was like screaming at a soundproof box. “Mal, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you seen to have gotten much worse. Please, come with me and we can find you a therapist.”

“I’ve seen three already, Arthur. And I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m afraid I do not need you anymore... so this is goodbye. Goodbye and farewell.”

 _ This is not how I expected it to end... In fact, I never thought it  _ could _end._ “I can’t accept this, Mal. I can’t imagine losing you to some crazy fucking idea. Whatever it is that’s taken hold of you.” He tried again to wrap her within his arms, as if the nostalgic touch would rekindle what they’d lost.

She pushed him back tersely and stared at him with distant, lifeless eyes. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Arthur, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Mal stood and left the room, footsteps as light and airy as the floating of a phantasm. 

Despite the unexplainable burial of their relationship, despite the feeling that this would be the last time, despite the violent cleaving of his insides in twain, Arthur couldn’t help his watering eyes from admiring her graceful form for his appreciation of all things beautiful. His aesthetic wouldn’t allow him to hold a grudge against a porcelain vase, to fume at a bouquet of arranged flowers, to scuff during the performance of a mesmerizing ballet. And never had he been witness to a more perfect work of art.

Two days later, he got the call. Cobb called him sobbing, begging for help, “She’s gone... she’s gone.”

He clutched his loaded die. He’d gambled on her and lost it all.

***

Arthur hated the kick. He hated waking up to the nauseating sensation of free-falling into nothingness, reaching out for something to grab hold of, but the ledge was always just inches too far from his fingertips. Worst of all, it now reminded me of how Mal must have felt, as she flew alone through the air. Where was her cloud when she needed it most, the one that allowed her to float leagues above the Earth? He wondered what her last thoughts were as she threw her head back for the final time, face upwards to the night sky as it slipped further and further away. Did she think about... him at that moment? Or had it been Cobb and only Cobb all along?

He then had to ask himself: _If you had been in Cobb’s place, what would you have done? Would you have jumped after her?_ But he never had an answer. Because it never would have been him.

Stretching as he sat up, he pulled out the PASIV attachment from his wrist.   
  
Despite it being a difficult subject to broach, he’d found it surprisingly easy to talk to Ariadne about Mal. Perhaps it, in a way, needed to come out. He already felt the knots in his muscles loosen, to a point he didn’t know was possible due to years of bearing that silent shame.

“You loved her so much,” Ariadne said wistfully as she, too, awakened. With her encouragement, they’d gone under together to experience the one memory he couldn’t put into words.

“Yeah... and I’d like to think that in her own eclectic way she loved me too,” he replied. “But I knew what I was getting into our first night alone together. She told me, ‘Nothing can destroy my love for my husband. This arrangement is purely one of necessity.’ But of course, I was stupid. I let the idea of ‘us’ run away with me like some goddamn Disney movie where I was the unknowing villain.”

“It wasn’t the best way of going about things, no. In fact, I am amazed that your relationship with Cobb isn’t in shambles,” Ariadne expressed honestly. 

“I try not to think about it, but I definitely resented him for getting to her first. They weren’t right for each other—they enabled each other to drift away from reality even more than they had individually—but she was stuck... she believed that marital vows extended into perpetuity.”

“I-I believe that too,” Ariadne blurted out. “Call me old-fashioned, call me a Disney girl at heart, but I can’t help but believe that a promise is a promise.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “It certainly was the way I was raised as well. So I guess you end up adopting the beliefs that justify your own actions. The only way I could live with myself, as sickened as I was by my behavior, was to modify my moral code.”

“Look, I’m not here to chastise you,” she said. She’d been doing her best to remain calm, to forget her own trauma and jealousies, and to immerse herself in the job of being his security blanket. “What’s done is done. If you truly cared about her, you should care what she would want. And you know, Arthur, that she would want you to go on with your life.”

“Does that include confronting and making amends with Dom?” he asked apprehensively.

“I think she would have wanted that,” Ariadne mustered a smile. He returned it.

“They’re looking over here,” Arthur then said out of the blue.

Ariadne turned around to check out what he was talking about, but he took her by the chin and planted a kiss on her half-open lips. _Thank you._

***

Eames had a hearty English breakfast of ham, two eggs sunny-side up, toast with marmalade, and deliciously saucy beans that morning: a sizable feast that left a whirlwind of pans and dishes littered around Ariadne’s kitchen. It takes quite an appetite to stomach working alongside Cobol agents after all.

While jet lag plagued the average traveler, Eames had no problem coping with the lack of sleep. In fact he believed the harsh strain on his senses made him better at his job, that his prowess in the dreamworld would help him pick up on signals that might escape someone of a sober mentality. _It makes sense if you don’t think about it._ This he affirmed as he wiggled into the Cobol t-shirt and torn jeans that were part of the dress code.

“I heard you jumping rope to Lady Gaga until late in the night... Are you sure it was a good idea creating even more of a challenge than was required?” Yusuf asked, his arms crossed and leaning against the door frame of Ariadne’s bedroom. His eyes twinkled in amused curiosity.

“Mm,” Eames said, examining himself in the full length mirror in front of the bed and straightening out the shoulder holster he’d be sporting under his outer coat. “I have everything under control. Don’t worry yourself, Yusuf, wrinkles are far from becoming.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” he retorted smugly.

“Oh?” Eames placed his hands on his hips in mock offense. “And what have I done to deserve this vote of confidence?”

Yusuf cleared his throat to ward off a laugh and announced, “Better give that fly a nice tug.”

Besides that one minor hitch, however, Eames’ day played out smoothly. Immediately upon entering the premises, he was escorted by several of his future co-workers to the back elevators, which were roped off from the public by a construction warning sign. _Clever_ , he thought, making note of the fact. _Different elevators for different areas of the building._

One of the escorts was a dirty blond man with a lanky build who’d introduced himself as Roger; he’d apparently been transferred over from Cobol’s London office about a month ago. The fairly new employee had some slight troubles in remembering the floor number, but the other man, a tall, buff fellow in a muscle tee with the company logo imprinted instinctively slapped the “13” button.

They kept quiet for the most part, save for a few sparing attempts at conversation from Roger, which the other, highly-ranked guard, whom he addressed as Johnny, dismissed for the most part, scoffing at his speech patterns. Eames made a note of adopting his American accent for this workplace.

Once arrived at the floor, they entered a long hallway, at the end of which was one solitary office with no outer designations. The door was made of solid wood, with no window pane, solely an intercom for those desiring entry. Johnny tapped on the red button, “It’s me, boss.”

“Come in.” The door opened on its own, sliding open slowly for the guests and doing the same in reverse once they were situated within, the lock clicking for both sides as it closed. _Paranoid much?_

The bureaucrat in charge of Security and Internal Affairs, as Eames knew from the application process, was a Mr. Mitch Wilcox, and his office lived up to his designation. It was spacious, with a panorama view of the city in its glass wall to the exterior. The furnishings were simple yet elegant, more like a modern living room than an office, save for the grand desk in the back of the room and the bookcases to the side. Mr. Wilcox sat behind the desk, dressed in a conservative three-piece suit, his fingers tented in anticipation.

“Please sit down,” he motioned to Eames, who took the swiveling black leather chair directly in front of the desk. The veteran guards seated themselves on the sofa in the center of the room, still within hearing range.

“Well, it appears to me that you, Mr. uh,” he checked the name on the documents before him, “Stuart Bronson, have only earned the highest accolades and acclaims from your time at the Mombassa post. You’ve had some of my sternest colleagues as your commanders, too. _Very, very_ impressed, I must say,” Mr. Wilcox remarked, skimming Eames’ hoax recommendation letters with his reading glasses perched at the tip of his nose. “I must say I’d be inclined to offer you a job in the highly confidential, highly prestigious M &E division right off the bat, if it weren’t for that messy pile of paperwork awaiting me. You know how it goes: you’re bound to following strict procedure in a delineated hierarchy like Cobol Engineering.”

“Yeah, but that’s why we’re so awesome,” Johnny piped in from behind Eames, somewhat unnerved by the quality of the new hires they’d been seeing recently. No one, not even a Cobol grunt, enjoyed the whooshing sound of his job flushing down the toilet.

Wilcox sighed. “Johnny, if I wanted your opinion, I would have asked my magic eight-ball.” He then turned back to Eames with a shared eye roll. “And I must remark on your answer to number seven of the application form. ‘Describe a time when you faced adversity and had to resolve the problem.’ ‘I shot the fucker in the face.’ To be perfectly blunt with you, I have never received such a concise yet evocative response in all my fifteen years at Cobol and am much delighted to have such a literary genius on our staff.”

Eames merely nodded, occupied with studying Wilcox’s every movement, his accent, his mannerisms in preparation for the upcoming extraction. All the while not falling flat on his face from sleep deprivation.

“So I will put you on a very temporary probation stationed on the ground floor. Code 12(b)6 Pay Grade and Level Four Access. If you prove worthy, I shall promote you as I see fit. Sound agreeable to you?” He furnished a personnel card from his desk, the security clearance levels embedded in the barcode and slid it forward across the surface of the desk.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, picking it up and sliding it into his pocket.

“Johnny and Roger will brief you on the details of your duties, but considering your training in Mombassa, I doubt it shall be much of a learning curve. Any questions?”

“No, sir.” Eames rose along with the other guards, preparing to return to their posts.

“Now off with you all. I have some prisoner termination procedures to plot out.”

The rest of the day was uneventful, although Eames was able to see the dynamic between the guards in action. From his vantage point on the ground floor, he was able to keep tabs on all who entered and exited, scribbling down relevant information in his mental journal.

The members of the Security Division were not to discuss work matters with each other, as they were never sure of the others’ clearance levels within the system. But of course, it was easily apparent who was favored by the higher ups as to sensitive, vital operations and who was no more than a typical security-guard for hire, the ones who’d just left their careers as mall security. 

Eames chuckled as he revisited the notes he’d recorded during some heated calisthenics. Cobol thought it was clever, not publicly disseminating information about guards’ rank, to protect against security breaches in case of mutiny. But it was hard not to tell the M&E officers, the elite corps of the Cobol guard, who were seen disappearing into the underground dungeons of the Cobol compound, no, it was quite apparent from their steel-toed loafers—the shiny, sometimes blood-encrusted, metal proudly glinting under the fluorescent lights. Vanity really did not bode well for secrecy.

The next workday his resolve was set although he was far too concerned with planning out every possible contingency to catch up on much-needed rest. Thankfully Yusuf, who was more than aware of Eames’ sporadic insomnia, had taken it upon himself to be the chef that morning.

When he arrived at Cobol headquarters that day, cheery and surprisingly awake, Eames and Roger, his partner for the remainder of his probation period, spent the morning patrolling the ground floor. The man was slightly neurotic, with a nervous tic on the right side of his face and an overwhelming need to squirt hand sanitizer into his palms every twenty minutes or so. He wondered if this would cause his projections to be antsier than those of the usual subject. 

Yes, he’d locked his crosshairs onto the target-to-be, thanks to his fellow Englishman’s choice of foot attire and disdain for the lowly task of handling security above ground. He _had_ to have some information about Cobb if he were down there, and Eames was betting on yes. He’d gone through Miles’ cell phone to catch himself up with Ariadne and Arthur on the details of the operation, concurring with their assessment. Despite only being on the staff for a couple of days, he was cognizant of the fact that he had to act swiftly. Time was extremely crucial: for all they knew, Cobb’s head could already be on the chopping block.

“Where would you like to go for lunch today, Stu?” Roger asked, glancing at his watch and rubbing his hands together.

“How about the Mexican place near Hollywood Park?” Eames suggested, trying to think of something a little out of the way, so that they weren’t in danger of bumping up against other Cobol employees.

“Uh, that’s a tad far…”

“It's on me,” he winked.

This was, to be sure, a game changer. “But I suppose it’s all right if it’s a good restaurant.”

“We can even take a nice long lunch break to enjoy ourselves.” _Siesta included_. 

When the noon hour came, they walked out to Roger’s vehicle, spotting a few others on the way. The rowdy clan gazed at the two relative newbies warily and kept on talking amongst themselves.

“Should we invite them along too?” Roger asked, obviously still shy about approaching his fellow guards, who no doubt teased him about his neurosis and Briticisms.

“Nah,” Eames replied, relieved that he had picked the runt of the pack. “It seems like they’ve already got a place picked out.”

Inside the car, a pine-scented air freshener hung from the rearview mirror and extra bottles of hand sanitizer stocked the cup holders. It was eerily spotless for a used car, unless, as was the case, such used car belonged to a germophobe. They made small talk, the majority of which consisted of Roger relaying an embarrassingly detailed account of his recent divorce. Eames could not have recited a single word of it back to you, however: he was reviewing Wilcox’s profile in his mind for the impending forgery. _Run of the mill midlevel self-absorbed tool of an evil corporation._ Within the dream, he would impersonate their mutual boss in order to extract information about the identities of the prisoners and the routine of the dungeon crew.

“Turn left here, correct?”  
  
“Yep, and it’ll be right before the next light.”

Because he didn’t know how far from the premises Cobol’s security cameras extended, Eames waited until they were all but pulling into the parking spot before leaning over to spritz a Yusuf-prepared sedative into Roger’s face. He quickly passed out—luckily his head missing the horn as he fell forward—and Eames reached over to guide the wheel the rest of the way, shifting on the parking brake.

He pulled the slumped over man into the front passenger seat and took the helm, driving them both to Ariadne’s apartment, where the rest of the team was waiting, save Arthur, who was watching the children and decided that it wasn’t in their best interest to observe an illegal extraction first hand.

“I guess I shouldn’t have doubted you after all,” Yusuf looked on, impressed, as Eames carried a sleeping Roger into the living room.

Ariadne rose from the kitchen table, helping to plug the man into the PASIV, which sat on the coffee table, as Eames set him down on the corduroy loveseat. 

“Remind me again, where do I start out in this dream of yours?” Eames asked, seating himself in one of the metal folding chairs they’d placed next to the couch.

“You’ll be in what looks like a company break room. The subject will enter, and that’s when you question him. I’ll be right outside the door, warding off projections as well as I can.”

“Whatever you do though, please do it quickly,” Yusuf urged. “The sedative you gave him is very light.”

Ariadne checked on the pillows placed behind the chairs in case of an emergency and then took the chair next to Eames, the two of them attaching themselves to the machine.

“You guys ready?” Yusuf said, his hand hovering over the Somnacin release button.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ariadne replied, closing her eyes.

The device hissed slightly as it pumped the chemicals into their bloodstreams, and Yusuf watched over them with wonderment. No matter how many times he assisted people in entering the dreamworld, he never got over the soft, comforting feeling of seeing people vanish from their bodies, limbs falling limp to the side, knowing that they are experiencing something far beyond the limited reach of their flesh.

But something was different this time. Instead of their bodies entering the relaxed trance of slumber, they seemed to turn rigid, as if all of their muscles were replaced by molten lead, hardening under the cool breath of the air conditioner. He dashed over to check Eames’ pulse, placing two fingers on his neck, but couldn’t find anything.

 _ Shit. Shit shit shit. _ _What do I do?_ Yusuf panicked, wondering if somehow the PASIV had been tampered with. Maybe Eames ingested some of his sedative, and it was botched? But then Ariadne would be showing symptoms too...

With conflicted and inordinately guilty thoughts flooding his mind, he sat stunned for a second, battling the disconcerting feeling of being saddled with the responsibility of playing God over three lives.

But lucidity returned to him as he turned his eyes back to his close friend. _What would Eames do?_

A curve of a smile on those fleshy lips. _Give them the kick!_

Yusuf stopped the PASIV and hurriedly ran from one chair to the other, as if playing some life and death game of Duck Duck Goose, pushing first Eames and then Ariadne over to reawaken the minds within. They fell into the piles of pillows, gasping for air as they came to, like they’d been resuscitated from drowning.

 _ What about the Cobol man? They couldn’t lose their one source of information... _

Yusuf dragged him off of the couch, letting the blond man fall to the floor below him with a thud.

“What the hell happened there?” Ariadne demanded between huffs, her lungs still burning. “All I saw was this dark nothingness, and then suddenly I was conscious again. But I felt like I’d been smothered with a pillow.”

Eames coughed a few times, still straining for air flow, but he answered, “It was my fault. Lack of oversight.”

“Huh?” Ariadne and Yusuf echoed each other.

“I didn’t know what their required immunization was for. They said I needed a malaria shot, and I didn’t think anything of it,” Eames explained. “But it now appears that what they really require of every Cobol employee is an anti-Somnacin injection.”

“Oh dammit,” Yusuf said, bopping himself on the head in disappointment with his memory. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the signs. Yes, that must have been what happened.”

“What is that?” Ariadne asked, quite exasperated at being the perpetual novice.

“It’s a substance created to block the person as a possible target for extraction: a poison pill of sorts. When people hook themselves up with him or her using a PASIV, their minds can only extend to the machine itself, not to the subject. It basically causes a glitch in the system. Then each of their minds are shut off entirely until they die of a lovely mixture of suffocation and heart failure.”

She looked horrified. “How much more is there to dreamshare?”

“There are plenty of details and possibilities that we have yet to explore,” Yusuf replied. “It being a recently implemented technology and all.”

Meanwhile Roger had woken up. He was lying still on the floor, trying to find an opportune moment to either jump up and take one of them out or to slink away. Adjusting the position of an arm, he prepared to rise in attack. 

“Don’t fucking move,” Eames said, the motion catching his attention. He pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster and cocked it at the Cobol underling.

Roger turned his head toward Eames and the others, his look of outraged horror only interrupted by his uncontrollable tics. He was, much to his chagrin, _caught_.

“One toe out of line, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” Eames threatened, stepping towards and keeping his pistol trained on Roger.

“So you’re British too?” he exclaimed. “You sure had _me_ fooled, bloody traitor!”

“I’ll be asking the questions around here,” Eames muttered, smacking him across the face with the gun, maintaining the air of dominance required to batter information out of an uncooperative captive.

Ariadne gulped with widened eyes, extremely uncomfortable with the situation. Yusuf noticed this and patted her on the back, whispering, “If you need to go, just go.” 

She nodded and slipped out the door without a word, savoring the fresh breeze outside and letting the wind flow over her, tousling her hair about wildly. But she didn’t care anymore. Her mentor had been calling her cell phone, worried about her health, as she had called in sick for three days in a row now. But she couldn’t deal with forming an explanation right now, much less constructing a new auditorium for some town’s football team. It was enough just to stay focused at the task at hand: saving her friend’s life.

She took deep breaths, keeping the nausea that washed over her at bay. Two near death experiences within a week had definitely left her frazzled, but she told herself to hold on, that this would be over soon, that this was all for a good cause. _It’s for Cobb. You need to break some eggs to make an omelet, Ariadne. These people knew what they signed up for; they wouldn’t bat an eye at watching you die._

But how low was she willing to go? Was it wrong that she stood by while someone was being tortured? Wasn’t she above this sort of cruelty? Was she just as culpable as the executioner?

She didn’t know how long she stood like that, motionless next to the door. She heard crying, screaming, and finally a muffled shot. But her face never changed: she didn’t even know which expressions to use anymore. None of her previous repertoire would say what she was feeling with adequate meaning. So she didn’t say anything at all. She was a blank.


	11. Coming back for you

Later that night they reconvened at Arthur’s. Eames had to return to work after wringing out a hard-earned confession, so he was the last to arrive. 

“Late as usual,” Arthur remarked, tapping his watch as they waited. 

Yusuf shook his head. He was still wearing an apron and had goggle marks on his face from the acid bath he created to dispose of the body in the bathtub. “The man is probably getting chewed out by a superior officer right now, Arthur. I wouldn’t want to be in his position.”

Ariadne was curled up on the couch with the kids on the floor in front of her, trying to lose herself in cartoons. Engrossed in that fictional wonderland, she wished wholeheartedly that she could go back to childhood and all of the innocence it held for her. 

_ What have I gotten myself into? I’m not strong enough to carry Arthur through. I’m not even strong enough to deal with my own troubles, much less his.  _ But she knew she couldn’t break it to anyone. _They all think you’re weak, that you need to be coddled. So prove them wrong again._ Yet she wondered how many times she had to prove herself before she could shed the label the world stamped onto her.   
  
A knocking on the door. The children leaped up, racing to see who could get to it first. The visitor was, of course, a tired Eames.

“Did they believe your story?” Yusuf said approaching the entrant.

“I’m surprised, but yes. They apparently have quite a high turnover rate.” The two of them met up and headed back towards the kitchen table in lock-step.

“What did you say to explain your lack of a partner?” Arthur asked probingly.

“I said he decided to quit,” Eames replied with a weak laugh. “I didn’t bother to elaborate that it was ‘living’ I was talking about.”

Arthur continued, far from humored at Eames’ exchange, “So what did you get out of the subject?”

“Besides his security access card, I found that Cobb is indeed one of the prisoners of Cobol, and he is being held in Cell Two in Sector 56, two floors down on the East elevator. There also happens to be a handy back exit in that sector, a tunnel leading up to the parking lot,” Eames described precisely.

“This is great news,” Ariadne smiled as she peeked her head out above the back of the sofa. _Try to stay positive_ , she told herself. This information did lift her spirits dramatically, though, as she now felt assured that the things they were doing would have a purpose after all.

“Okay, so we’ve found out Cobb’s location, that’s fine and all. But logistically how are we going to get him out of there without anyone noticing?” Arthur asked. “Aren’t people manning the security cameras 24/7?”

“A diversion,” Yusuf said, thinking of the chemistry set tucked into his suitcase.

“Lighting things on fire may be a solution to most problems,” Eames said, in tune with his friend’s implication, “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be sufficient to capture Cobol’s attention unless you burned the place to the ground. You need something _really_ big.”

“Well, what would capture Cobol’s attention enough for them to devote their entire security detail?” Ariadne pondered as she joined them around the table. “What are they interested in?”

A hush fell over the schemers as they flipped through their options. Then they tossed the possibilities back and forth like a baseball.

“Maybe some kind of information that they really need, you know, for business.”

“But where would we get that?”

“Do we have any dirt on them we could use as extortion fodder?”

“I don’t think you can extort the kings of extortion...”

“Are you _certain_ a bonfire won’t work here?”

“Absolutely sure.”

Arthur snapped his fingers. “Got it.”

“What?” they asked in unison.

“Proclus Global.”

***

“He’s in a call. Would you like to leave another message?”

“Still?”

The woman on the line sighed. “Mr. Saito is a very busy man.”

“Do you think he’ll get to any of the fifteen I’ve already left?”

“I apologize, sir, but I don’t have a current estimate.”

“You’re his secretary, can’t you swap something around on his schedule for us? I mean it’s literally a matter of life and death.”

“All right, all right. Let me see if I can find a loophole somewhere,” she said, defeated by his unabashed persistence. Elevator music blared with its acoustic static as Arthur was put on hold. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk in his bedroom. Ariadne was out getting ice cream for the kids so that he could have some quiet time to complete this simple task. Or at least it _should_ have been simple.

Ever since he’d divulged his guilt-ridden secrets to Ariadne, he’d been able to think more clearly about his relationship with Cobb. He certainly agreed that Mal would have entreated them to remain friends, probably a large factor in why they hadn’t yet confronted each other already. Another was the bond they’d shared since childhood and the obligation he felt toward Cobb was like one to a brother; and this was further heightened by his moral failings, the more he loved Mal, the more he owed Cobb.

But now that he’d had his children around, he felt a different sort of tug on his heartstrings. Before, he was able to forget they existed to cope with their absence, like he was some nameless, faceless sperm donor to an infertile couple. Taking care of them, feeding them, and tucking them into bed every night with a soft song though... he could see more visibly little bits of himself and Mal within their smiling faces. Phillipa. James.

And the more he loved them, the more he dreaded Cobb’s return. _But he’s your best friend. Don’t those years mean anything to you?_ The closer they came to freeing Cobb, the further he was to his children. _It was his wife. It was his marriage. They’re his children._ Yet he couldn’t even _imagine_ letting go.

“You still there, sir?” the secretary clicked in, her voice abrasive.

“Oh yes, I apologize. I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Well, I might be getting lost after this. The boss was rather _displeased_ with my interruption. Like I said, he was in the middle of a very important phone call.”

“I’m terribly sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to get you into any trouble.”

“It’s too late anyway,” she groaned. “But at least I got you an audience.”

“Really?” he brightened up.

“Yeah, you got five minutes, mister. Hope you make the best of them.”

Click.

“Hello, this is Saito speaking. May I ask who has been harassing my secretary?”

“Hey Saito, it’s Arthur. Please don’t blame her. It was all me bothering her, I swear to it.”

“Oh yes, Arthur. I received your message, and I am afraid I am far too busy for tourism.”

“That’s not what you said last time.”

“Last time it was my own business; I had to see to it that the deed was done. And you may have seen the news. Since the division of the Fischer-Morrow conglomerate, things have been changing rapidly in the corporate world-”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard. But that’s not what I’m trying to talk to you about.”

“You said you needed me for a job. I am gainfully employed, thank you.”

“No, no. You see, this job is a matter of life and death.”

“To me, mine is as well.”

“But this one is literal. We have to save Cobb.”

“Cobb... Dominick Cobb? The extractor?”

“Yes, he’s being held prisoner by Cobol Engineering.”

Saito paused, remembering, “Yes... we said we’d be young men together. Alright, I have a board meeting to attend right now, but you have my promise. And you know that I keep my word. For Dom Cobb’s life I am willing to contribute.”

Arthur jumped up and did a silent cheer. “Of course, I know that you are an honest man.”

“I will have my secretary send you my flight and schedule details. Please give your contact information to her. And I will see you soon, Arthur.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Saito. And thank you so much.”

As Arthur spoke to the under-appreciated office manager, Saito returned to his previous phone call.

“Hello, Mr. Fischer. I apologize, but I had an emergency to attend to.”

“But of course. I understand that these things arise. Now where were we?”

“I believe I was giving you some entrepreneurial advice on your new business...”

***

When Ariadne returned with the kids, who were sticky-faced and bubbly, Arthur all but skipped to the entrance of the apartment to meet them.

“He said yes!”

Ariadne’s face quickly curved into an excited smile, and she ran forward to meet him in a hug. The crux of their plan was now in place. _Cobb is coming home,_ Ariadne beamed. 

He brushed a lock of hair out of her face as he looked down upon her. It was a pity how little she smiled since that one day: the luminous glow of her face easily ranked in the list of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen. And yet its absence was partially his doing.

He felt bad about dumping so much onto her when she was struggling with the onslaught of life-changing events. He could see her biting down every time she wanted to scream, to cry, and he wanted to tell her that she could share what was on her mind as well. But he knew he was too stuck on his own troubles to be able to give her the support she needed. _When I work things through with Dom, I’ll come back for you, Ariadne. I promise._

She, too, had been trying to think things through, knowing she had to escape the fog that now clouded her vision, her mind. _But dammit, I_ am _strong, no matter what anyone else says._ When one stops seeing the world outlined in bold marker and lit up by the bright colors of Disney films, one must adjust her eyes to the varying hues and the grayscale shading of reality. _What did you say once, about longing to believe in absolutes?_ She laughed internally. There was no good or evil, really. Just a bunch of monkeys with big brains trying to learn to live together without killing each other left and right.

As for Arthur, there was no use in forcing the issue of a potential future. _He needs time to heal, and I’ll grant him that. With time, all can be forgiven, all can be forgotten._ She smiled, wider still. _And I’m not going anywhere._

They let go of each other in mutual understanding.

“Uncle Arthur,” James said, tugging on his pant leg.

“Yes, James?” he replied, squatting down to his height. Ariadne watched on, 

“Are you going to be our new parents?” James asked, his bottom lip quivering.

Ariadne and Arthur shared a shocked look.

“Our Mommy and Daddy are gone forever. And now so are Grandma and Grandpa. We don’t want to lose you, Uncle Arthur and Aunt Ariadne,” Phillipa explained, sharing in his sentiment. “We’re tired of losing everyone.”

“Come here,” Arthur beckoned to the children, his eyes tearing up. “You’ll never lose me, I promise you this.” _My only moral obligation from now on is to you, Phillipa. And to you, James._

They obeyed, folding into his arms as he clutched them, as if afraid of them disappearing from his grasp. “Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” they responded, sounding relieved by his promise.

“Now there’s a puzzle waiting for you on top of the storage bin in the closet of the bedroom. Why don’t you go start it, and Uncle Arthur will be there to help in a second?”

“What kind of puzzle?” Phillipa asked.

“You’ll see,” he winked. The children hopped towards the room, feeling more secure now in their family arrangement.

“Kids understand a lot more than they let on,” Ariadne commented after they’d gone.

“That’s why they need stability. And people they can count on to be there for them,” Arthur sniffled and smiled briskly. “I probably shouldn’t come along on the job.” _I have my own mission to accomplish._

“Why not?” Ariadne asked. “They wouldn’t actually pursue you anymore; after all, it was only Miles’ influence that entrapped Cobb this time.”

“Well, they still know me, and it would look extremely suspicious. The operation is delicate enough as is,” Arthur replied. _And can you imagine the yelling Cobb would give me for endangering the mission. No thanks._

“Eh, I suppose you’re right,” Ariadne mused. “Plus this way we won’t need to find a babysitter for the kids. ‘Sorry, it’s on such short notice, but can you watch my children for a few hours while I break into some evil corporation’s prisons to free the man they _think_ is their dad, who, by the way, was just illegally acquitted for murdering their mom?’ Yeah, wouldn’t cut it with most sitters.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur smirked, relieved. “It’s California. I’m sure they’ve heard wilder stories than that.”

***

The big day had arrived.

They’d met Saito at the airport, Ariadne and Yusuf. Eames was, of course, already at work: every guard was required to be present that day, due to the high security meeting that was to take place. He’d called the team from a cell phone earlier that morning, pissed off by the fact that he’d been promoted and thus been given his own access card. _Too easy_. Yusuf calmed him down with the reminder that he’d at least gotten to take down one Cobol scumbag, which he readily agreed with. This corporation was far from popular as far as Kenyans go.

For some unfathomable reason, they’d expected Saito to show up at the baggage claim terminal like any other normal person. But when one owns an airline, one travels in more style than that.

He’d come in a private jet, his valises carried by a number of nameless bodyguards, a lawyer, a couple of other board members from Proclus Global, who surrounded him like the Secret Service surrounded the President in a crowded area.

“Are you two ready for the show?” Saito asked with a wicked grin. He looked as dapper as always, dressed in a red tie and sleek navy three-piece suit, tailored precisely to his measurements, looking like he’d just walked out of a Gentlemen’s Quarterly cover.

“Sure am,” Yusuf smiled, feeling every bit as good as Saito looked in his own formal get-up.

“What exactly did you tell Cobol to get them so worked up?” Ariadne asked out of curiosity.

“I told them I was buying them,” Saito replied, not even turning his head as he walked forward with his flock of suits. “It seemed neater.”

Ariadne and Yusuf eyed each other, working their hardest not to burst out laughing behind him.

They returned to their vehicle, borrowed from Arthur, ready to follow the limousine waiting for Saito towards their destination, which actually happened to be fairly close by. 

Looming over the horizon from a fair distance, the building was... majestic to say the least. Ariadne observed the monstrous glass structure, concentrating so hard she was expecting it to shatter into a billion pieces just from her piercing glare. She wondered how much was hidden underground, like the tunnels beneath an anthill; perhaps Cobb was concealed within one of those winding passages.

The limo folded into the loading zone in front of the building, but they found they were motioned by a guard to park instead in the lot to the east. Not wanting to attract attention, the two found a spot and hurriedly unfastened their seatbelts.

Ariadne smoothed out her black and white hound’s-tooth skirt as she struggled to slide out of the car in a ladylike, i.e. non-revealing, manner. She was not accustomed to business suits as of yet because her firm required only business casual dress for normal work hours, and interns weren’t usually there to meet with clients for the most part. She also checked her hair in the side mirror, nodding to Yusuf once she had made sure that her bun was still perched atop her nest of hair.

“Let’s go catch up with Saito’s army,” Yusuf grinned.

The grounds were well-kept: expanses of green grass anywhere untouched by concrete, plus a large flower garden that spelled out the words “Cobol Engineering” in white pansies and red gerberas. They took the sidewalk, somewhat intimidated by the consequences of violating the posted sign: _Keep off grass... or else_.

Hurrying along, they managed to reach Saito’s group, blending into the giant mass of people, hoping they were as inconspicuous as they felt.

Ariadne gasped. The centerpiece as the guests entered was the beautiful fountain laid into the shining granite flooring: the geysers shooting up three floors in height, lights playing with the churning spray of the water. _They obviously don’t have this thing on everyday._

A swarm of Cobol guards in matching suits accosted the group, the head of which, a tall fellow sporting tattoos and bulging muscles, addressed Saito directly, “Greetings, dude. I heard you’re going to take us over.”

“Um, yes. This is a possibility,” Saito responded, baffled by such impropriety. His own bodyguards stepped forward in case of a scuffle.

Then from the back of the building, a thin man in a grey-pinstriped suit and vest marched towards them with lengthened strides, obviously in a time crunch, his newly polished shoes clicking against the smooth stone.

“I apologize, Mr. Saito, for anything my subordinates may have said to you,” the toadying man practically pleaded as he bowed deeply. “They know not what they say, being untrained in the fine art of respect, so please forgive us.”

Saito raised an eyebrow. “It is fine, Mr. uh-”

“Mr. Wilcox, I am out of line today,” he said. “Not even introducing myself, what am I thinking. Please do not think that my foolish behavior reflects upon the corporation as a whole.”

 _The man from the text message?_ Ariadne could feel all the loose ends tying together.

Saito chuckled. He doubted anything could change his perception of Cobol for the worse, after the history they’d had. “Shall we go, gentlemen?”

“Of course, of course. Our founder and CEO is waiting just upstairs,” Wilcox motioned to the large glass elevator directly behind the fountain. Ariadne stared upwards towards the ceiling, which was studded with large skylights: with the height of the building, it almost looked like an elevator into the clouds.   
  
The group packed cozily into the elevator, which had only one button, riding it steadily to the penthouse suite. The Cobol guards and the Proclus guards glared at each other suspiciously in the confined space.

“Is this your only elevator to the top floor?” Ariadne asked Mr. Wilcox nonchalantly. Yusuf listened in, pretended to be staring out at the walls of offices along the insides of the building.

“Why do you ask?” he replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, well I’m actually Director of Logistics at Proclus Global, so I deal with building safety and all that jazz,” she lied as well as she could under the circumstances.

Luckily he was familiar with the concept of a bloated bureaucracy full of excess titles and departments and did not second-guess her response. “Ah, I see. Actually we have an alternate one just down the hall from our CEO’s room, but this is mostly used by the staff and guards.”

“And it has more than one button, I assume?”

“Yes, it can reach any floor, including the ones underground. Er. I may have said too much,” he said. “Well, no matter. We are confident that Proclus will find our company most enticing and are more than happy to accept Mr. Saito as our overlord... I mean to accept his patronage. I’m really rambling today, aren’t I?”

Ariadne kept her face still as she replied, “Don’t worry, sir. Mr. Saito is a benevolent ruler.”

Ding. “Here we are,” Mr. Wilcox said, taking the lead and directing the group across a breezeway of sorts, with a glorious view down to the ground floor. After crossing over, they found themselves in a more traditional hallway, wood paneling on the bottom half of the walls and textured crimson wallpaper on the top. In the middle of the hallway, the walls gave out to two wooden double-doors, a plaque on the left of which said: _Cobol Engineering, Incorporated. Founder, Chief Executive Officer, Head of Operations: Vincent E. Cobol, Esquire._

Some of the guards split off, staying flush against the wall paneling to watch the doors. The rest followed Wilcox and Saito’s party as they entered the office.

Ariadne didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps a devious brute striking a Cheshire cat sitting on his lap. Or perhaps more of a mad scientist type, balding with his tufts of gray hair sticking up in all directions like puffs of cotton candy, his eyes magnified behind coke-bottle lenses.

She was, to be frank, still in awe over the size and design of the building itself, but as she entered the room, the first thing that struck her was the window, which encompassed the entire exterior wall, offering a gorgeous view of the city due to their relative altitude. Light streamed in such incredible amounts, in fact, that she was momentarily blinded as to the layout and contents of the room.

“Hello again, Mr. Vinny Cobol.”

But what she didn’t expect was this. An elderly man who looked like he was in his last throes, his face blotched by liver spots and only a few wiry white wisps of hair clinging to his scalp. He wore a red bow tie with his beige suit, and he had a man, likely a personal assistant, at the side of his desk to attend to his every need. _This is the evil mastermind responsible for countless deaths across the globe?_

“Vincent E. Cobol,” he wheezed faintly as his assistant helped him rise on his cane and waddle towards his fellow CEO. “Please to see you again, Mr. Saito.”

Saito bowed and stayed bent down slightly to shake the feeble old man’s hand. A group of top-level Cobol executives, already waiting around the large table at the center of the room, stood at attention next to their chosen spots. Both heads of corporations waved at their entourages, allowing them to sit down, while taking their seats at opposite ends of the conference table.

 _ Pity I can’t see the two bigwigs in action.  _ Before she took her spot, Ariadne pretended to be surprised when her phone started beeping. “Oh, it appears I have an emergency to attend to in my division. I’m sorry, but if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen...” She waved at the expressionless faces in the room and hurriedly trudged out of the room, unsteady on her new pumps.

After the two sides were properly situated and the guests offered appropriate refreshments from the bar on the side of the room by the frowning guards in their black shades, Saito cleared his throat.

“I know that you are a closely-held corporation priding yourself on your very _personal_ and attentive management structure,” Saito got right to the point as he sipped the tea provided by one of the many guards lining the room. “And Proclus Global would be delighted to continue your tradition of meticulous micromanagement. That is why I am here to negotiate a merger.”

Vincent Cobol’s eyes widened for an instant, but he quickly masked it with his expert poker-face. Or perhaps it was senility. “I see.”

“I will see to it personally that your subsidiaries and current officers are not harmed by such an arrangement.” he continued his pitch unruffled by the other’s interjection. “As chairman of the board and CEO, I would like to offer to you and Cobol Engineering, on the behalf of all the directors of PG, a merger agreement for your perusal.”

He waved to the apprehensive lackey to his right, who furnished a thick packet from his briefcase with shaky hands, passing the documents down to Cobol himself.

“It provides that, although Proclus Global will be the surviving corporation, Cobol’s operations will be supervised by none other than yourself...” Saito went on speaking, but it might as well have been in some ancient tongue from the blank looks on most of the faces.

Yusuf, especially, had tuned out since the first word, and he had now turned halfway in his chair, beckoning for a guard’s attention. When one of them, the leader of the guard from earlier, leaned forward, he whispered with a smile of mock embarrassment, “I apologize, but may I ask where the restrooms are? I’m afraid I’ve had too much of this complimentary champagne.”

The guard sneered behind those dark glasses. “Got bladder problems? You should talk to my man, Red; he specializes in incontinence,” he replied jokingly before advising, “Out the door and to the left, at the end of the hall.”

The serious-minded of the room watched Yusuf with judgmental disdain as he rose from his seat, tiptoeing exaggeratedly to the door like an elementary kid without a hall pass.

Once outside he took the directions given, whistling nonchalantly on his way as he could hardly make himself look _more_ conspicuous. The hallway was lined with shady characters, all dressed in regulation black suits and ties, several of them with prominent scars. As he turned the corner, however, he dove to the left and pressed the button for the elevator. _C’mon. Let’s go, let’s go._

Ding. Once inside the closed metal doors, he breathed a giant sigh of relief. Security was crawling on that floor and not just any security, these were the same ones who’d pursued Cobb in Mombassa. Yusuf knew their kind well as they often harassed locals into giving kickbacks, no better than petty bullies on power trips. Yes, these were the lowest of lowlifes, and Cobol Engineering seemed to be a breeding ground for the mongrels.

Ariadne was waiting impatiently on the third floor landing, tapping her red kitten heels against the granite floors. “Took you long enough. Did you have to take a bathroom break or something?”

“Ha, bloody ha,” Yusuf replied with a sheepish smile. “Any guards around?”

“Nah, this is the Engineering Department. All I’ve seen are a bunch of quiet nerds,” Ariadne replied with a chuckle, “ogling me no less.”

“Sounds like a go.” Yusuf then undid the buttons on his suit jacket, revealing a colorful array of chemicals lining the inner flap. “Come on then, let’s get started.”


	12. Step by step

“So you’re telling me Ariadne, Saito, and Yusuf are up there acting as a diversion as we speak?” Cobb exclaimed. 

“Yes. And?” Eames answered, his matchstick twitching against his lip with each syllable.

“Dammit, they could be in danger. We need to stop jabbering and get the hell out of here,” Cobb urged, panicking. He struggled, pulling himself up with wobbly legs of rubber, trying to tell every ache and pang to save it until he got home.

Eames stepped forward to help him up although he wasn’t, in that moment, the biggest fan of Cobb’s I-told-you-so attitude. “We should wait until the fireworks have started before starting out. There may still be guards wandering around in this sector.”

Cobb gritted his teeth as he rose, one hand on Eames’ dependable shoulder.

“In the meantime, you want me to dispose of this little rat right here, right now?” Eames suggested, digging into his holster for his gun.

“No, no!” Cobb protested, nearly buckling as he let go of his guidepost for a second to push Eames’ hand away from his side. Nash blanched and shrunk into even more of a ball.

“Hm? I thought this was the bloody scoundrel that betrayed you and Arthur?” Eames looked puzzled.

“He... he was. But it’s a long story,” Cobb uttered tersely, signaling that he was finished on that point.

“Lots of storytelling to be had today, I s’pose. Eh, whatever you say, Cobb,” Eames said, shrugging his free shoulder, not bothering to inquire any further as he could care less about the details. “Can you walk, uh...”

“Nash,” he replied, still quite intimidated by Eames’ trigger-happy manner of dealing with contingencies. “And yes, I can. I wasn’t beat up as badly as Dom.”

A rumbling sounded above them, as if someone had unleashed a stampede of cattle onto the ground floor of the Cobol building. “There’s our cue,” Eames grinned. “Get up from there, Nash, and let’s get out of here.”

Cobb found that once he was standing, he could walk without leaning against Eames: it was just getting up that was the problem. He and Nash shuffled towards the door, significantly slower than their knight in Cobol body armor.

Eames went first, sliding his card through the slot and opening the door as the LED light flashed green. He ducked his head out, searching the hallway, and motioned for the other two to start moving once he’d ascertained that it was clear.

As he stood in the doorway between prison and freedom, Cobb felt a strange and inexplicable reluctance to part ways with his place of emotional rebirth. Here he had aged more than he’d done all those years in Limbo and other dreams in terms of maturity, and he wondered if he would be able to keep from degeneration when once again bound by the pressures of society. And if it weren’t for the prospect of facing torture and execution, he didn’t know if he would be strong enough to take the next step forward.

He put one foot forward. And the other followed. Standing on white tiles with grey streaks resembling the striations of marble, he realized he had made his first independent choice outside, as himself. _One step at a time,_ he thought, _and it’s not so daunting_.

The corridor resembled a wing of a hospital: everything was sterile white, the walls, the doors, the ceilings. The ex-prisoners wavered between the two directions until Eames nudged them towards the right.

“Good thing even the security camera operators are being used upstairs to guard the Proclus Global meeting,” Eames laughed, “or we’d be in deep shit.”

“Where are we heading?” Nash questioned, keeping his voice low, his eyes darting back and forth on alert. He didn’t want to end up like Rian after all.

“Obviously not the front doors,” Eames replied as he walked backwards to face the two of them. “Although they wouldn’t be able to tell you apart thanks to the great glut crowding the entrance. Our target is the end of the sector, where there’s a nice convenient back door leading to the parking lot leading to the get-away vehicle.”

“And the others’ll be waiting?” Cobb asked.

“No, they have their own exit strategy,” Eames winked as they reached the end of the hallway. Turning to the side, where there should have been a door to the outside, there was instead a man with red hair and eternally blushing skin, holding a Beretta in his right hand.

Cobb could have sworn his heart stopped right there.

 _ Red _ .

“And just what d’ya think yer doin’?” the uppity guard asked smugly, looking almost comical in his ill-fitting black suit and uneven tie. He was shaking with excitement at the prospect of having done _something_ right.

“I’m taking them to the incinerator,” Eames stopped in his steps and explained smoothly, trying to calm the guard down. Cobb and Nash each hugged a separate wall in case the Cobol agent decided to start shooting wildly.

“Nice try, new kid. The incinerator is down in the basement, and the stairs leadin’ ta it are on the other side o’ the sector.” Red took a step forward, brandishing his weapon aggressively in their direction.

“Like you said, I’m new here. Don’t know my way around yet.” Eames put his hands up, displaying their emptiness and his lack of illicit intentions. He kept on smiling his confident, disarming grin, body language loosened and relaxed. _Just like that, keep cool, Eames._ Cobb crossed his fingers for him, admiring his level of physical control in staying in character.

Red laughed. “Yeah sure, like I’d believe that horse hockey. Why ain’t ya at the Japanese dude’s party?”

“Why aren’t _you_ , hm?” Eames pressed.

“Me? I had a feelin’ y’all were up to somethin’. Ah’lways git this gnawin’ sensation behind mah ear, and it’s never wrong. I knew y’all were up ta no good,” Red smirked, giddy with adrenaline. “Now I’ll finally get some much-deserved acknowledgement from mah higher ups.”

“Not if your little theory doesn’t hold water,” Eames tsked. “They will be more than a bit peeved at you for wasting their time and bringing another of your false reports.”   
  
“Shut yer mouth. I know you’s got a gun in there somewhere. Now throw it down, boy,” Red commanded, lifting his gun and aiming it right at the center of Eames’ forehead. He was getting quite comfortable with the idea of wielding authority.

Eames pulled his pistol slowly from his shoulder holster, setting it on the floor before him and kicking it forward to Red.

“Good, good,” Red chuckled as he leaned down to pick it up from beside him. “Finally a subordinate at my beck and-” His speech was interrupted by a most disturbing gargling noise.

As Red took his eyes off of Eames, he’d thrown a knife—which had been tucked into his front jacket pocket—at the Cobol lackey. The sharp blade landed on its bull’s eye, stabbing into the side of Red’s neck. He dropped both guns, eyes bugging out as he choked on his own blood, which flooded his lungs; Red fell to the ground, quickly losing consciousness as the blood spurted from his carotid artery.

Nash and Cobb watched in bewilderment as the guard, who was smiling proudly before them a second ago, succumbed to a painful combination of asphyxiation and blood loss. After he stilled, lying crumpled on the waxed floor, Eames stepped forward, taking back his own gun and wrenching the knife out of the lifeless body, wiping the blade on Red’s shirt before replacing it in his pocket.

“What?” he asked in mock defense as the others transferred their thunderstruck stares to him. “It’s my favorite knife. I’m not going to lose it on account of this bloke.” _Same goes for your unscrupulous conscience, it seems._

Stepping over the fresh corpse, they finally reached the door. Once again Eames swiped his card, the hydraulics releasing air from a valve as they pushed the door open.

Although the pathway was merely an underground tunnel leading upwards towards the surface, Cobb couldn’t help but notice the subtle scent of fresh oxygen mixed into the dusty stale air of the concrete hole. The tunnel was constructed entirely out of concrete, wires and pipes running along the side of the drab gray sphincter of the compound. Each step they took echoed loudly, sound waves ricocheting against the sides of the structure, so none of them spoke lest another guard hidden up ahead decided to make himself a hero and martyr.

_One leg forward. Then fall onto it. Yes, that’s right. Next, alternate and repeat ad infinitum. Away from this place, away from everything._

Finally another set of doors appeared at the end of their quiet journey, this one marked with an “Emergency Exit” sign in incandescent red. Patches of sunlight peeked out from the crack under the doorway, and Cobb could hardly contain himself at the prospect of seeing the sky again.

They opened the door and walked outside.

But instead of the expansive blue sky or the green of the grass framing the black asphalt, the first thing Cobb noticed in the glare of the sunlight was the color of Nash’s eyes as he tilted his face upward to bathe in the rays, typically a dark brown but now a warm honey, as viscous as a medallion of amber.

 _ “Hey, I liked your presentation in class today,” Cobb said, holding his books under his arm as he caught up to his classmate. The one with the sad eyes which glowed under the bright sun. “Really impressive design.” _

_ “Uh... thanks, I guess,” Nash replied uneasily. “I think I’ve seen you around, but who are you again?” _

_ “Dominick Cobb,” he answered as the spring breeze blew gently over them. “Nice to meet you.” _

His mouth curved upwards in an involuntary smile. Nothing could have recaptured this feeling.

“What are you staring at?” Nash raised an eyebrow, noticing the intense focus of Cobb’s gaze as people in all variations of business attire spilled out into the parking lot from the main building.

“Nothing,” Cobb grinned. “Nothing at all.”

***

“I’m afraid I’ll have to think over your offer, Mr. Saito, as generous as it seems to be,” the elderly Mr. Cobol said lackadaisically after skimming over several relevant provisions of the proposal. Mr. Wilcox and the rest of his team nodded vigorously, indicating their agreement.

“Wait, you can’t pass this up, sir,” one of the young executives, who’d been wiggling in his chair the entire meeting, finally blurted out. “What if he withdraws the offer? We’ll never get a chance at merging with Proclus and gaining the clean energy technology again.”

The old man coughed once and raised his thumb. Three of the guards immediately approached the out-of-line midlevel manager and, one of them placing a hand over his outspoken lips, escorted him quickly out of the room without a scuffle.

There was an awkward silence, but Mr. Cobol continued to speak as if nothing had happened. His voice remained barely audible, but general reverence for his person had greatly increased within the last few minutes. “As I was saying... we need some extra time, Mr. Saito, if that is all right with you.”

“Perfectly acceptable,” he replied, unimpressed by Cobol’s practices. “I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.”

At that moment a guard burst into the room, breathless. He rushed to the side of the decrepit old man and, like a royal messenger, began to deliver the news. “I apologize,” he huffed, “sir... but... ugh... there are fires, explosions, strange gases... downstairs. We need guards... to help... with the emergency...”

“By all means,” Cobol said, waving off the dozen guards in the room and motioning for the exhausted man to call off those stationed just outside as well. “I believe our meeting is in its denouement stage anyway.”

After a few words of thanks to their hosts, Saito and company stood, shaking hands with their counterparts and exchanging business cards before following the guards out through the intricately carved doors.

Once in the hall, they could hear the blaring of the alarms calling for people to evacuate the building. Panicking high-level secretaries pushed by the mass of suits as they rushed to the stairwell. The elevators were, of course, non-operational.

He felt a pat on his arm, turning to see Mr. Wilcox with a strained smile on his face. Calling off his guards who were ready to restrain the presumptuous man, Saito asked, “What do you need?”

“I just wanted to put you at ease about the current situation, Mr. Saito. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve received inside information from the guards on the third floor—yes, I am the head of Security—which details that the fires are no more than multicolor flames drawn into patterns and that the gases are only variants of laughing gas and tear gas, nothing toxic,” he shared eagerly, words running into one another.

“I see,” Saito said, turning away as they reached the top of the stairwell. But this Mr. Wilcox was persistent. 

“Please don’t take this whole ordeal to be an accurate illustration of Cobol’s day-to-day management abilities. It seems that an Engineering intern with a grudge decided to bring in his chemistry set, nothing more,” he continued, tone becoming more desperate.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilcox, that will be all.” Saito muttered a gruff command in Japanese, and the bodyguards at the caboose of his procession detained the sycophantic manager where he stood, allowing them to travel down the endless flights winding stairs without interruption. 

Taking advantage of the short break in his schedule, he asked one of his legal team to prepare to rescind the offer outlined in the merger agreement as soon as they’d left the premises. He’d never intended to make good on that deal anyway as he didn’t want his empire to be associated with the likes of Cobol. Causing the disappearance of one’s adversaries needed to be conducted with finesse, after all.

After traveling what felt like a mile, Saito stepped onto the ground floor, which was already teeming with people—mostly administrative assistants and pencil-pushers from the lower floors. He spotted Ariadne and Yusuf standing on the ledge of the fountain, the latter’s waistline quite a bit less bulky than it’d been at the beginning of the day due to his lightened load.

“I see you’ve done your part successfully,” Saito said, gesturing at the waves of frightened employees, who chatted amongst themselves about far-fetched rumors such as terrorist threats and government conspiracies.

Ariadne grinned at the star of the operation, her accomplice, who shrugged in humility. “All in a day’s work.” 

“It seems that most of the guards were concentrated first on our meeting and now these fires, so I doubt there were any personnel left to monitor the basement floors,” Saito assessed.

“I sure hope you’re right,” Ariadne said, still not entirely relieved because she had yet to receive any feedback from Eames’ end. She had her cell phone in her hand, checking it every minute or so for new messages.

“What are you worrying for?” Yusuf smirked. “This is Eames we’re talking about. He’ll pull through even if he has to tackle a few guards on his way out.”

They assumed their places in the long line at the front doors, the buzz of activity not unlike a crowded morning at the Mombassan market. Yusuf thought fondly of his city, where his little shop on the corner, his cat, Maggie, and his oldest friend, Musa, were awaiting him. It had been a breathtaking trip, and they’d put a nice dent into those Cobol bastards’ morale... But after this badassery overkill, he was ready to return home for a nice nap on his cot.

***

 _ Home _ . It was unbelievable to contemplate for a second time. Almost too good to be true, if the last visit were any indication.

Luckily they’d been able to make it to the house without a problem: Eames guided Cobb and Nash to the car as fast as he could and expertly dodged numerous pedestrians as they maneuvered their way off of the Cobol grounds before the brunt of the evacuees hit the pavement. _I wouldn’t want to see that traffic jam_.

He’d garnered quite a few stares on the road, doubtlessly due to the swollen, dirt-covered face he’d pressed against the window, enthusiastically swallowing as much as he could about the city where he lived. So many things he’d never noticed before, that never would have entered his mind, if not for such an experience. Every familiar sight plucked at his heartstrings with the bow of nostalgia. _I never would have known what I’d missed._

His home looked just as it did before, although the lawn needed a mowing among other types of gardening care. But this didn’t matter to Cobb. He swung his limp body out of the car as soon as the ignition was extinguished, spirits soaring with each additional step forward. Cobb paced as quickly as he could towards the front door, which, for some strange reason, was unlocked.

 _ The kids. Are they okay? _ He felt guilty for the fact that his thoughts hadn’t turned towards them in quite awhile, Nash taking precedence over any competing priorities in his one-track mind. _What kind of father am I?_

Leaving Nash and Eames behind, he dashed inside, ignoring the warning signs put out by his frail body. “Phillipa? James? Daddy is home. Where are you?”

No answer.

He heard his two companions enter behind him as he stumbled to the kitchen, guiding himself along the wall towards the patio door. He opened it to the backyard, which stood empty, except for the swing set in the distance and a few dried, sun-bleached sheets next to a caked over mess that used to be a set of finger paints. The weeds stood high among the yellowed grass, and it was apparent that no one had set foot into the yard in quite a few weeks.

His temple throbbed. _Where are they? Where have they taken them? Oh God, was it Cobol? Could they see this escape coming? Or did that scum of the Earth, Miles, kidnap them and leave for France?_

Cobb reentered the house, scuttling along the floor until he came upon Eames, who was propped up on the couch for a well-deserved rest. Cobb almost collapsed from the pain in his sides in front of the man as he pushed his body for speed that it did not possess in its weary, wounded state. “Where are my kids?” he managed, pressing a fist into his side to halt its protest.

“At Arthur’s, why?”

 _ Arthur?  _ Another pang not unlike jealousy pricked his heart. _Why the hell would_ he _have them?_

“We need to go over there. Right now.” He narrowed his eyes as he winced, letting himself drop onto the couch as his legs just _quit_.

“No, I’m afraid this is where we’re all meeting,” Eames shook his head as he flipped through the channels with the remote in his hand. His place is far too small for a congregation of this magnitude.”

“Okay then, hand me the keys,” Cobb demanded, reaching out with an open, trembling palm. “I’m driving over there.”

“Cobb, they’re probably on their way already. And frankly, you are in no state to operate heavy machinery.”

He wanted to stand and argue, but he couldn’t anymore. Cobb felt himself falter, seeing the world in a tinted daze as if someone had run a high contrast filter over his retinas. _No, don’t pass out. Take deep breaths, stay with me_.

“Okay. Okay... I will wait,” he finally uttered, riding the crest over his wave of near loss of consciousness. Then as the stars blinked out of his vision one by one, he scanned the empty room around them. “Where did Nash go...?”

“I think he went to take a shower. And no offense, love, but I’m fairly certain you could benefit from one of those as well,” Eames mentioned, wrinkling his nose oh so subtly.

 _ Might as well, _ Cobb mused, _to pass the time before my kids get here. And Arthur... oh, Arthur, haven’t you taken enough from me?_

He sniffed at himself, finding his sense of smell dulled by recent events. _Well, I’m sure he’s not exaggerating_. “Sounds like a plan.”

He could hear the sound of water flowing through the pipes in the direction of the master bedroom, so Cobb was relegated to the guest room where some of his clean clothing was sitting in the hamper where he’d last folded it. Eames aided him through the door and shut it softly behind him. “Happy scrubbing.”

Alone again. Shut into a little black box, he felt secure once more. Nonetheless he flicked the light switch.

 _ Who is this? _

Cobb stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. They often say you don’t recognize yourself after a haircut, a shave, or a change of clothing... but Cobb literally did not believe it was his own reflection staring back. Scraggly hair matted, the loose locks dangling over his eyes; his facial hair unkempt and serving only to age him further. Sunken bloodshot eyes—one of them bruised and swollen—dried blood caked in his hair and down his face, stemming from dark lacerations and extending along his cheeks. He was much thinner, although he knew the bulk of his loss was muscle mass, and, as he looked down, Cobb noticed that his once-pristine suit and once-polished loafers were filthy and stained with a cocktail of dirt, mold, and every body fluid imaginable.

He discarded the clothing, which had become like a second skin to him in these weeks, letting the fabric fall naturally to the linoleum, pooling around his feet. One foot, two feet into the porcelain tub. One turn, one pull, and the rain poured.

He then proceeded to take the longest shower in known history, emptying out the Amazon River in pure volume. He didn’t touch the soap or sponge, just let himself sit there as the torrent massaged his skin. The pressure and heat stung at first, but then he became numb and at peace with the calm of his mind as physicality vanished: the nothingness of being. Drowning in his own bathtub, he was home.


	13. Home away from home

Under the light streaming in from the kitchen windows, Cobb sifted through the mail from the past few weeks, as if he were a normal person in his normal house, living his normal life. It was, like the first time he returned, surreal.

His hair was still wet from the shower, but it felt _good._ A reminder that he, at least outwardly, was now presentable to his fellow man, as if he’d come back from temporary leave, slipping comfortably into the identical position he’d always occupied. _Nothing’s changed. I haven’t lost a thing... besides a few pounds._

As he flipped through the ads and coupons, one postcard in particular caught his eye:

 _I’m sorry to hear about the death of your father-in-law and my esteemed colleague, Professor Miles. He was an architectural and creative genius, a blessing to this world, and most of all an upstanding family man._

 _My condolences,_   
_Dr. Gerald B. Cooper_

“What the fuck happened to Miles?” Cobb exclaimed, laying the pile of letters down on the table, as the words repeated themselves in his head trying to make sense of themselves. Eames, now sprawled out on the couch lazily, his arms along the back, was profoundly engrossed in a movie on Pay-Per-View.

“Hm?” he hummed, as if a fly had landed on his shoulder, and he couldn’t be bothered to swat it off.

“You know... Mal’s father?”

“Oh, that old geezer. Yeah, he bit the dust awhile back, but we handled it, don’t worry.”

 _The fuck..?_

“I need the details, Eames,” Cobb enunciated, his already empty reserve of patience now in the red.

Eames sighed, more than a bit miffed, but he reached forward to hit the pause button on the enthralling romantic comedy. “Arthur shot him in the head, made it look like a suicide. The cops bought it, and even if they didn’t, he’s mates with the police chief.”

Cobb’s jaw hung open, flabbergasted, but to be honest he wasn’t altogether displeased with the result. Miles may have had somewhat of a legitimate goal when he began his crusade, Cobb now realized, but the whole ordeal he’d just faced didn’t exactly paint a rosy picture of the old man in Cobb’s mind.

He then set to wander about the house, peeking in all the familiar nooks and crannies, touching objects as if to ensure they wouldn’t disappear before him. Something was strange about his study, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on what. Most of the books, which belonged to Mal save a few volumes on architectural design, were untouched, but the lock on his filing cabinet had been tampered with. _Wiley old bastard._

He moved on, trotting on sore legs, although rejuvenated somewhat by his cleansing. Within his son’s room, James had left his stuffed bunny—the one made of yellow velveteen with the chewed off ear—on the bed, signifying that he’d probably left the house in a rush. On the other hand, what if he’d simply grown out of the toy in the short time of Cobb’s absence? How much of their critical stages of development had he already missed? What if he _had_ died in prison and weren’t able to be there to watch his children grow up? _Instead it’d be Arthur..._ He clenched his fists in regretful anger, wondering if they even remembered who he was.

Upon reaching the master bedroom, he found a new installment within. Nash was sitting on the bed, gazing at the family photos on the dresser. He was wearing one of Cobb’s old silk bathrobes and it kept slipping off his bony shoulder, too loose for his emaciated frame.

“I can see why you didn’t want to give this life up,” Nash said after some time, not bothering to turn around. _He knew I was here the whole time_.

“Meh. It was nice while it lasted.”

Nash went on, seemingly offended by Cobb’s earlier rush for his children as he was left, once again, behind in the dust. “Is that what you’ll be saying about us as well? Just a fond memory to hang up on the wall? ‘My Prison Vacation’ would be a charming title-”

“Stop it.” Cobb crossed the room and put himself between Nash and the photographs, blocking his view. “You should be happy right now. Celebrating.”

But the point was well-taken. Since arriving back home, he’d felt himself slipping further and further into his previous mindset, prioritizing what was expected of him. With the change in environment, it was hard to believe that what he’d gone through in the past few weeks was not simply a figment of his imagination, like some dream of epic proportions. It was becoming more and more difficult with each tick of the second hand to sort through and reconcile the wholesome values of his old life with those of the new path he’d ostensibly chosen for himself. _Or did it all just lead back towards the same eventual end?_

“Right. Happy. Dreading every second because the next could be the moment you turn and ask me who the fuck I am and what I’m doing here,” Nash said despairingly. “In prison, I was everything to you because I was all you had. Outside now, in this infinitely huge world, I am a fleck of dust, clump of dead skin cells. I am nothing to you once again.”

Just then the sound of the garage door opening vibrated through the house. Cobb felt his pulse racing. _The kids_? “Come on,” he said to Nash as an afterthought, already halfway out the door. _Maybe he’s right, as always..._

But as he saw Ariadne there in the hallway, clad in a business suit, her hair in a bun, joking with a reddened and most likely tipsy Yusuf, he realized that he was greeting the wrong arrival. _My flight is delayed again._

She seemed a little uncomfortable standing there in the house, but Ariadne’s face brightened as she caught Cobb out of the corner of her eye. _Eames couldn’t see the change in me, and neither can she… Not enough to leave a lasting mark?_ “Oh my gosh, Cobb!” She ran forward to give him a hug but refrained right as she extended her arms due to his frightful injuries.

“Are you okay?” she gasped, shocked by his state. _If only you’d seen me an hour ago._ He could imagine her clutching those pearls dangling around her neck. “I can’t believe they did this to you...”

Cobb cleared his throat. “I’ll be fine, although I may want to see the doctor sometime just to make sure.”

“I could give you a preliminary check-up if necessary,” Yusuf offered, attempting to make himself useful.

“It’s okay,” Cobb declined politely, finally feeling the gravity of their contributions. _Even if they weren’t the children I was expecting at the door, they are damn VIPs. People who stuck by my self-absorbed ass when all I’ve done is quadruple their risk, insensitive to their sufferings. People like you make me believe that, somewhere out there, there’s a life worth living after all. Though, of course, it’s not necessarily this one._ “But thank you guys, really. You’ve put your lives at risk for me when you didn’t even have to lift a finger to help. I-I can’t express my gratitude-”

“Hey, Cobb isn’t a total ingrate, who would have known?” a voice rang out from behind him. All of a sudden he wasn’t so choked up anymore.

“Who is this? I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” Ariadne said, extending a hand to Nash. He came nearer and reluctantly took it in a shake, looking defiantly to Cobb to explain his reason for being there.

“Um, that’s Nash,” Cobb said, unsure of how to address him in front of everyone else. He could feel his ears blushing a fluorescent pink and hoped that his overgrown head of damp hair adequately hid his unease. “He’s... he’s...”

“I’m an architect. Dom and I used to work together,” Nash stated in a monotone, moving to shake Yusuf’s hand as well, but his eyes continued to stare dejectedly at Cobb. _I see you’re still the same. Hello, Dominick Cobb, nice to meet you again._

“I see,” Ariadne nodded, sensing that something was up. “Well, Yusuf and I are going to bring in the pizza from the car. It’s a reunion and that means we have to party at least a little bit.”

“I told you so,” Nash sneered as the two snuck out the door.

“Now is not the right time for it,” Cobb replied, trying his best to tease a justification out of his jumble of emotions. “There’s too much going on. Too much left to say.”

“Right because there’ll never be a right time, will there?”

A ringing of the doorbell saved Cobb from having to formulate a response. He sauntered to the front door, unhindered by Nash’s piercing disappointment.

“Hello, Mr. Cobb,” Saito said as the door opened. Again a thinly veiled layer of disappointment swept across his face. _Where is Arthur? Where are my children? Fuck... when I see him again I am going to give him a piece of my mind._

But he was glad to again rendezvous with the proud businessman he’d saved from Limbo. _One of my few good deeds_ , he thought sardonically. _And even then it was only to protect my own interests_.

“Hello, Mr. Saito. I heard from Eames what you had done for me today, and I cannot repay you for the time you’ve sacrificed in coming here,” Cobb said formalistically but sincerely.  

Saito laughed. “It was my duty, an ongoing component of my promise. We said we would be young men together, Dom, and I knew I would be filled with regret if I let you down.”

 _A sense of honor. Another trait he no longer possessed._ “I also never got a chance to apologize for all that went wrong during the Fischer job... I’m afraid I wasn’t myself back then.”

Saito waved off the notion with his hand. “No, no. It is I who should apologize for not keeping Cobol in check afterwards: I did not expect them to retaliate in such a way.”

They smiled at each other with knowing expressions, understanding one another in the way only two young men grown old beyond their years could.

“Well, Mr. Cobb, I regret to inform you, but I must leave for an important meeting. Unlike the dreaming profession, the business world never sleeps,” Saito grinned, glancing down at his platinum Rolex watch.

“No problem. I appreciate your help, all of your help. It was more than I ever deserved,” he bowed as Saito waved goodbye with a shake of two fingers, returning to his security detail which was waiting in the limousine parked out front.

Meanwhile Yusuf and Ariadne had laid out the pizza and cans of soda across the sizable dining table, clearing off the mail and old newspapers that Cobb had laid upon it. They watched, struggling to hide their curiosity, as a famished Nash wolfed down a couple of slices in one go.

“Eames, you almost done with that movie?” Ariadne called towards the sofa.

“I’m watching the credits,” he replied in a serious tone.

“Oh, get your ass over here,” Yusuf smirked.

“Well if you put it that way, I believe I’d be obliged to acquiesce,” Eames matched Yusuf’s humored expression as he rose from the couch and nodded at his teammates. He asked, streaming over the selection before him, “Do you happen to have sausage?”

“Perhaps,” Yusuf replied tongue-in-cheek, “if our friend here hasn’t eaten it all.”

Nash quirked an eyebrow as he glanced up from his current slice of pepperoni, sausage, and jalapeno pizza. He wasn’t quite in the mood for cracks and jabs at his expense, but there was something about the jolly Kenyan’s delivery that put him at ease regardless. _The dude couldn’t hurt a fly_ , he adjudged.

Cobb promptly strolled over from the front door area and joined the group around the table, squeezing between Ariadne and Eames, while Yusuf was in the midst of detailing each calculated mini-explosion from the job with untouchable enthusiasm. Despite his mixed feelings of anxiety and the darts Nash continued to shoot in his direction, Cobb couldn’t help but take a dip into the group’s ecstatic joy, an empathetic smile creeping onto his face. It was almost a complete team portrait, save one glaring exception.

“What toppings would you like, Cobb?” Ariadne asked in a worried tone as Yusuf finished his proud tale of badassery, grabbing a plate and napkin for him. “You must be starving as well.”

 _Starving for something a little different, Ariadne, but thank you._ “Sure, I’ll have a piece of the cheese,” he said, as she grabbed a couple for him.

“Just make sure you don’t stuff yourself silly like this one here,” Eames laughed. “Not the worst way to go, but methinks he should be put on suicide watch.”

“Give him a break,” Cobb said, frowning and failing to find the humor in the situation. Nash shot him a perplexed look for defending him so openly.

“So um, what are everyone’s plans in the near future?” Ariadne asked the group, trying to rally them away from mercilessly poking fun of one another.

“Going back to Mombassa,” Yusuf replied with a homesick sigh. “As you can see, I’ve filled my excitement quota for the year.”

“Not without me though,” Eames added, patting his friend on the back. He then turned back to Cobb, undaunted by his stuffy attitude. “You want to come along as well?”

“What? I just got home,” Cobb stared at him suspiciously. “I’m staying here.”

Eames chuckled. “Another man with a death wish. Where do you think will be the first place they look when they’re searching for heads to roll, my dear Cobb? Mr. Cobol does not take kindly to being made a fool of.”

 _Fuck. I didn’t even think about that._ His insides felt cold as his blood froze icicles all the way from his heart down to the tiniest of capillaries. _Another thwarted happy ending._

 _You’d think you’d have learned to trust yourself when something feels surreal by now, huh, Dom?_ Mr. Charles’s voice boomed loud and clear in his beaten brain. _No such thing as a fucking fairy tale. You of all people should be most familiar with this concept._

“I-I’m going to...”

A faint click as the front door opened. Cobb’s ears perked up. But there was nothing. _Where was the pitter-patter of their little feet against the hardwood floor?_

Instead a solitary Arthur came within view. He looked just the same as before, hair slicked back, wearing a starched white button-down shirt, grey vest, and matching trousers. Very much alone.

They froze in place, eyes making contact for the shortest of instances, but it was uncertain who broke away first.

 _You’re just the same. The identical person. But I can’t say I recognize you anymore._

“Hey, Arthur,” Ariadne called, unaware of the bitter tension racking up in the room. “Want some pizza?”

Arthur opened his lips as if to speak when something... someone caught his eye. _Nash?_ He reddened and muttered, “Uh, one second, Ariadne, I have to borrow Eames for a moment.”

She flitted her eyes back and forth between the two rivals. “Okay, sure, I’ll just get a plate for you.”

Eames followed Arthur around the corner where he pulled Eames to the wall by the shoulder and motioned in Nash’s general direction, growling, “What the fuck is _he_ doing here?”

Eames shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Weren’t you the one in charge of getting Cobb out of there? Why did you bring that treasonous scumbag along?”

“Cobb asked me to. You better take up the issue with him if you’re interested in any sort of reasoning,” Eames replied, withdrawing from Arthur’s hold and smoothing out his shirt passive-aggressively. “Or in finding someone who gives a fuck about your drama.”

Eames smiled sweetly at his fuming companion and returned to the table. Arthur followed, clearing his throat and avoiding standing near either Nash or Cobb, leaning against the ledge of the counter, where his food was waiting, with his arms folded across his chest.

As Ariadne steered the subject towards stories of office hijinks at her internship, Arthur and Cobb snuck little glances at each other, neither willing to budge and to broach what was on their minds. Elephants, to be exact. The two gigantic—and in Cobb’s case, competing—elephants in the room: Nash and the children.

 _Why?_ they both wanted to ask. _Why?_

Nash studied the two of them as the atmosphere around them became heavier and heavier, almost to the point of being suffocating. Every additional second like holding your breath underwater, burning in the chest and bursting at the seams.

Finally they broke from the water, gasping for air. “Oh, by the way, Dom, didn’t you have something to show me?” Arthur eyed him pointedly, doing his best to adopt a friendly countenance.

“That’s right,” Cobb played along with a forced grin, more than ready to have it out with Arthur for his underhanded actions. _It’s been years since we’ve really spoken, years since I could say I really knew who you were, my friend._

Arthur headed for the farthest corner of the home from the kitchen, the master bedroom, an appropriate location as it had been the unwitting battleground of years of unspoken strife. Cobb trailed him, limping through that hallway of time, the portraits on the wall mocking him with their saccharine smiles.

Once inside, Arthur stood where he had earlier, between Nash and the photographs, his back turned. Cobb closed the door behind him.

Now that there was no one else around, Arthur didn’t hesitate to take the initiative, “So you’re finally... out.”

“Out of prison, yes.” Their words were terse, tones flat.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Not in the strict sense of the word, no.”

“How long’s this been going on?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

Arthur turned his head slightly, and Cobb caught a glimpse of his infamous bitchface. “Because I hate that incompetent backstabbing piece of-”

Cobb was tickled. “Pot, meet Kettle.”

“You never should have hired him in the first place. Even then I had a guess about your history...”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“The fuck it wasn’t,” Arthur retorted, spinning around. “You were... you were blinded by your perverted lust.”

Cobb gave a derisive laugh. “Oh you’re one to talk.”

A heavy pause. “For me, it was never because of lust,” he swallowed. “It was because you couldn’t cherish what you had.”

“If I’m so wrong, then why’d you even save me? Wouldn’t it have been easier on you to be rid of me?”

“Is that what you would have done, if you were in my place?”

Cobb shrugged. “I don’t know, but if you’re going to take everything away from me anyway...”

“Contrary to what you think, I’m not your enemy. I’m just trying to do what’s right.”

“‘Trying’ being the operative word.” Snicker.

“Just so you know, I am setting things straight. I told the kids who their real father was.”

Nix the snicker. Cobb stepped forward, visibly irate. “What the fuck? You really are out for blood.”

“No, Dom, trust me. It’s all for their sake. The kids, they need stability. They can’t be trusted with you. I won’t let them grow up in such an environment.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“That you’re an unfit parent, and even if you weren’t, they’re already used to life without you. Without faint glimmers of hope spawned by phone calls from some stranger named ‘Daddy’ on eternal business trips, meaningless token presents from some faceless father figure every birthday or Christmas. Yet who is he but a phantom? If you loved them, actually cared about them, you’d give them up.”

“Fuck no... Are you out of your mind, Arthur? I mean... how can you even ask such a thing?” But doubt crept into his mind, slithering and flicking at the air with its bifurcated tongue. Maybe, in some heartless way, he had a point... the children were only the remaining vestiges of his old life, and he _was_ already dead to them. As dead to them as he was alive to Nash…

“If you decline, as I expect you would, all it would take is a paternity test, Dom. Do you really want to argue with me? Do you want this shit exposed to the public, so everyone can see for themselves what a sham it all was?”

“Extortion, huh? Very high and mighty of you.” He furrowed his brow, a deep crevice down the middle of his forehead.

“I can bend the rules for the sake of my kids.”

“But they’re _my_ kids... I’ve raised them as such. It’s never been any other way. How the hell do you expect me to just give up on them?” Cobb asked, somewhat rhetorically.

He had a choice to make, a choice that he’d been putting off ever since returning home. _Don’t think about it_ , he said, the defense mechanism closing the gates. But he leaped through, letting the iron-wrought bars crush him as he wedged himself in between the jaws.

But there is no middle ground. Not unless he preferred to be sliced in two. _Do you accept your new life...?_

“You have your loverboy now. Why the fuck do you care? They are my only tie to Mal, and I’m the only one who truly loved her.”

“Fuck you... We both know I loved her as well, Arthur. It was just in a different way.”

 _...Or do you forget it all over again?_

“Because you were too preoccupied with nailing shitty architects, I got it. But nothing changes the fact that these are my children, my flesh and blood.”

“That means nothing.”

“But the fact that you would make a terrible father, doesn’t this carry more weight? Do you _honestly_ think of yourself as a role model? Do you _really_ want to create mini-Doms?”

Cobb fell silent as he always did when asked to defend his actions. _Why are you always right?_

“Plus they’re American, Cobb. What are they going to do in Europe or Africa or wherever you take them? I know you’re not going to England: Cobol has a stronghold there as well. They’ve gone through enough shit already, they don’t need a culture shock and language change to disorient them as well.”

 _Why do you always win, Arthur, no matter what the game is?_ He had nothing more to say. The decision was made.

“It’s what’s best for the kids, Dom. Don’t take it personally.”

 _Is it even about the kids anymore? Was it ever about the kids? Or were they just the newest war front in the never-ending military campaign?_ He turned to leave, slipping out from the closing gates, eschewing the courtyard of ennui for the tangled woods of the unknown.

Arthur called after him, offering a pitiful consolation prize, “You were a great friend, Dom. For whatever that’s worth.”

“Yeah, well I wish I could say the same for you.”

A childhood friendship, long suffering in its death throes, was extinguished in those words, like the flame of a candle, snuffed out by a single, painless pinch.

Cobb burst out of the door, finding Nash standing immediately outside eavesdropping. He glared at him, narrowing his eyes dangerously. _Really, now?_

Nash grinned at him proudly, as if aware of the choice he’d just made. “You’re too selfish to be a good father anyway.”

“And you’re too needy to be a mother, so we’re even,” he responded, whacking Nash in the arm as he shoved past, halfway between serious and playful.

“Getting even, beating Arthur in your jealousy-fueled cold war... what’s the point? There’s no such thing as winning in the game of life,” Nash said, rubbing his already bruised limb. “We all lose in the end.”

“Well, I’m gonna make sure I have a damn good time losing,” Cobb replied as he took the lead. “You know what? Forget making it difficult for myself: Fate already has all those bases covered. I’m going to be who I’m going to be. And if they don’t like it, they can fuck off.”

When he returned to the dining area, the trio remaining at the table had moved on in conversational topic: Yusuf was chatting with Eames about his plans to expand his shop, and Ariadne listened intently, making suggestions here and there based on her knowledge of architecture. Nash and Arthur also slipped back in although the two of them remained at opposite ends of the outskirts.

“So where did you say you were planning to go again?” Yusuf asked Cobb as he settled back in.

This time he was able to finish his sentence. “I’m going to Europe.”

He couldn’t forget what he’d learned in prison. That he was a liar, lied to himself all his life, lied to everyone else by proxy. That he was deluded to the point of encrypting and boxing away unwanted memories to perpetuate some retouched sense of reality. And, now he realized, that he was living a life so that he’d be good enough, so that he’d match up with everyone else’s expectations, flattened even under the thumbs of those closest to him. _No wonder I was happier being locked up._

“Oh! Going back to France?” Ariadne asked excitedly.

 _You can start over anytime. But when was the right time? Would there ever be a right time?_

 _It’s now or never._ “No, to Italy actually.” He stepped over to Nash and took him by the hand in front of the astonished faces. “We’re going together.”

 _It’s pathetic that it took a fucked up sequence of events, including a near-death experience, to make me wake up to this realization. And there’s nothing I can do or say to make up for the years of deception, of regret... But I can start by acting on the one certainty in my mind, written in the book on the highest shelf of my library of dreams._

Nash looked like he was about to pass out.

***

 _Trust me, you’ll see._

He hated heights. Which is why he took the aisle seat on the plane, covering his eyes with a complimentary sleep mask and gulping loudly every time they experienced turbulence. Cobb squeezed his hand as if to say, “It’ll be okay. I’m here.”

After all, they were no strangers to the concept of dying together in some fiery inferno of a crash.

At the airport in Rome, they silently gathered their bags and stood in front of the bus station, waiting and waiting. Side by side. Neither of them wanted to take the speedier alternative of a train. It was an unspoken understanding.

They looked out of place dropped off in the little town, which hadn’t changed much in the years since his departure. The same baker, now with grayed hair and deeper smile lines, manned the counter. The same grocer knitting alongside her cat as she chatted with a neighbor about local gossip. The roads were made of uneven cobblestones, which caused the taxi to lurch up and down as they headed to the little cottage at the end of the north road.

“Wait here, please,” Cobb said in his piss poor Italian, but the man indicated his comprehension with a curt nod.

He guided Nash along, taking his hand and acting as his lenses to the world as they traversed the rough, gravelly path to the doorstep of the home, where vines patterned the exterior wall like Venetian lace.

“Open your eyes.”

It was as if time had stood still for him in this little corner of the world. Perhaps the pause button _did_ work in reality, in some special instances.

“I’m scared.”

 _But it doesn’t matter._

“I know.” An anticipatory squeeze. “But you’re not alone.”

 _Because we’ll be together._

He knocked on the door.

  
 _FIN_

 


End file.
